


Nusquam aliud est vertere (Nowhere else to turn)

by valancyjane74



Series: Five Years Later (post quinquennium) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Auror Harry Potter, Blussie, Blusta, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Claustrophobia, Closet Sweetheart Draco Malfoy, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Domestic Dramione, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Drink Spiking, Elven Sex Education, Erotica, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Familial Abuse, Five Years Later, Fluff, Friendship, Hansy - Freeform, Hansy gets Handsy, Happy Ending, Hostage Situations, House Elves, Humor, Idiots-to-Idiots-to-Lovers, Lawyer Hermione Granger, Love Letters, MacRu, Misogyny, Nightmares, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Professors, Quidditch smuttenings, Redemption, References to Depression, Ron Weasley is punched ONCE, Slow Romance, Slytherclaw Relationships, Slytherdor Relationships, Therapy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Titanic References, Vinny - Freeform, Violence, dramione - Freeform, role play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 86
Words: 444,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74
Summary: February 2003: Draco Malfoy is living as a virtual recluse in Muggle London. Finding a drugged and helpless Hermione Granger on the doorstep of his townhouse in the middle of the night fundamentally changes his existence… and hers.A story of redemption, sexual awakening, reconnections, mystery, and lashings of Dramione love. HEA guaranteed. Primarily an erotic romance, with some elements of mystery (though the roofie subplot is not the principal feature of the narrative).'Draco stills and tips down his head; her dusky eyelashes are fluttering open like frantic butterflies. His own heartbeat inexplicably races as he breathes, “Granger?”Her variegated brown eyes widen in first recognition, then panic, as Hermione whispers, “Malfoy... didn't know where else to go... he drugged me – he roofied me-” Granger struggles feebly against his hold; her extraordinary utterance shocks Draco badly enough that he almost drops her. Drugged her? Roofied her?What in the name of Salazar is going on here tonight?’
Relationships: Blaise Zabini/Augusta Gilmont (OC), Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Macdolas/Ruibby, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter, Viktor Krum/Ginny Weasley
Series: Five Years Later (post quinquennium) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821316
Comments: 4893
Kudos: 1696





	1. Sanctum

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this story began when I recently read a post on FB by one-lonely-whumperfly, as follows:  
> 'The hero shows up at the villain's doorstep one night. They're shivering, bleeding, scared. There's also a slightly dazed look in their eyes - they were drugged. They look like they were assaulted. Looking up at the villain, swaying slightly as they're close to passing out, they mumble "...didn't know where else to go..." then collapse into the villain's arms.'
> 
> So the brain-worm was firmly stuck in my head and I had to write it out. At this stage I have a clear story arc, but it keeps getting longer. I aim to update twice a week.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the ride, and thank you for taking the time to read my story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to @dreamsofdramione for her absolutely beautiful cover art 💗🧡💛🧡💗.

_Sunday 16 February 2003: AM_

Draco is rudely awoken by a repetitive banging on the front door of his townhouse, followed by a heavy thump and slide against the thick wood. He fumbles for the silver watch on his bedside table; its luminous hands show 1233AM. Dead of night, in other words.

_Who the fuck is at my door at this hour?_ he wonders sourly. Given that his last visitor was... yeah, he can’t remember the last time anyone visited him socially. The wards around his property are otherwise undisturbed; perhaps it is merely a disoriented drunk blundering about?

Flicking on the lamp, Draco snatches his wand before he stumbles to the closet and grabs a thick woollen robe, hastily shrugging it on to cover his boxer shorts-clad body. He hasn’t heard another sound since the thump and slide, but a distinct feeling of unease is pushing away any last vestiges of sleepiness. He ignores his slippers, yielding to the growing instinct to make haste.

Even half-asleep, his usual grace does not desert him as he pads quickly down the staircase, his long, elegant bare feet barely making any sound against the polished wooden treads and floorboards. He activates the porch light with a soft ‘ _Lumos’_ as he decisively opens the door, wand at the ready, to discover -

“Granger?” _Merlin’s balls, is that really Hermione Granger slumped against the lintel in an ungainly heap?_ He rubs at his eyes, wondering if someone is playing a prank, or if he needs a stronger light.

But Draco would recognize those chestnut locks anywhere; he spent long enough fixating on them from his seat in the back of hundreds of Hogwarts classrooms. Granted, they are nowhere near as bushy or unruly as he remembers; despite a few wayward strands, they are bound in a mostly smooth chignon low on her nape. His eyes travel lower, assessing her closed eyes and waxy pallor. Her legs are awkwardly and coltishly sprawled beneath her, but her upper half is curled in a defensive fetal posture, with her arms wrapped around her stomach. She is wearing a long-sleeved burgundy dress that would be best described as demure, had her legs not been sprawled askance. Draco averts his eyes; realizing just how high her skirt has ridden up her shapely, stockinged legs makes him feel… he settles on _uncomfortable_.

A blast of cold air slaps him and he is unpleasantly reminded that he is standing bare-footed on the stoop in the middle of a London night in February. _And Granger isn’t even wearing a coat – she must be half-frozen. Or worse._

Draco reaches out to check her pulse before hesitating, instinctively slipping his wand back into his dominant hand and whipping his head to check his surroundings. His rapid but thorough inspection shows nary another living creature in the immediate vicinity; and the quiet “ _Homenum Revelio_ ” he casts fades into the gloom without a reaction.

_If this is a trap, it is a well-crafted one,_ he considers. Draco pockets his wand again and sighs, crouching before the unconscious witch.

“Granger? Granger, wake up,” he speaks firmly. His breath stirs a wisp of nut-brown hair against her forehead; she frowns a little, but otherwise evinces no response. Her lips are tinged blue and her breathing is erratic. _Well, that decides it – she needs medical attention, at the very least._

Before he realizes he’s made the decision to help his historic antagonist, Draco is sliding his arms beneath her legs and shoulders and lifting Granger in one smooth movement. Her head lolls against his neck and he cops a mouthful of silky brunette hair before her face drops to his chest. He adjusts her slight weight and moves back through his open front door, his quick mind running through his available options. _Should he apparate her straight to St Mungo’s? Call a Muggle ambulance? Call the Ministry? Why the fuck is she **here**?_

“Don’t you dare die on me, Granger,” Draco warns the insentient witch in his arms. He can already envisage the headlines: ‘ _Golden Girl Granger Found Dead in Former Death-Eater’s Home! Another Malevolent Malfoy Headed for Azkaban!’._ He grimaces. _They’d likely leave out the “former” qualifier_ , he amends cynically.

His feet have automatically carried them up the first flight of stairs; Draco wandlessly turns on the other bedroom lamp and prepares to transfer Granger to his bed when she moans softly and shudders.

Draco stills and tips down his head; her dusky eyelashes are fluttering open like frantic butterflies. His own heartbeat inexplicably races as he breathes, “Granger?”.

The witch whimpers again and manages to fully open her eyes. In a fascinated corner of his mind, Draco notes that her orbs are not a solid block of brown; there are three or four similar but distinct striated shades ( _chocolate, amber, whiskey and walnut?_ ). He’s never been this close to her before to take proper stock of their variegated colour.

Those same eyes widen in first recognition, then panic, as Hermione whispers, “Malfoy... didn't know where else to go... he drugged me – he _roofied_ me-” Granger struggles feebly against his hold; her extraordinary utterance shocks Draco badly enough that he almost drops her. _Drugged her? **Roofied** her?_

_What in the name of Salazar is going on here tonight?_ Granger’s pupils are mere pinpricks against that expanse of brown iris. She clumsily thumps a hand on Draco’s bare chest. His woollen robe has slipped, and her touch sparks a strange flare against his pale skin. Suddenly, Hermione stops thrashing and cries in pain.

“I feel funny,” she whimpers piteously. She raises her head on a wobbly neck; Draco is stunned by the misery in her gaze.

Which is how Draco Malfoy is still clutching Hermione Granger to his chest when the woozy witch vomits all over him. Copiously. Wave after wave of disgustingly warm, sticky, smelly puke. Draco instinctively shuts his eyes and mouth as the foul liquid splashes across his face, neck, chest. Even his ears and platinum hair don’t escape the spew-a-thon. Granger retches and heaves for what seems an eternity, though it could not possibly have lasted for more than a minute.

Draco cautiously opens his steel grey eyes again when he feels Granger flop back against his torso, exhausted by the ordeal of regurgitation. She has also managed to bathe herself in vomit, unsurprisingly. A few stray globules roll onto the wooden floors. _Delightful_.

“Granger? Granger!” Draco is about five seconds away from utterly freaking out.

“Wake up, woman! Who drugged you? I need to take you to a healer – St Mungo’s, or would you prefer a Muggle ambulance? GRANGER!” Draco considers lightly shaking her but rejects the idea in case it triggers the Almighty Spews again.

Hermione opens her sad eyes to mumble, “Not St Mungo’s. No ambulance. Can’t – can’t risk it,” she slurs, head lolling unsteadily again.

“Granger - don’t be a fool – you said yourself you’ve been doped. I won’t chance you dying in my bloody house, for Merlin’s sake!” Draco expels an angry breath through his flared nostrils.

“S’alright. Can feel… most of it’s left my system. Promise me, Malfoy. _No hospitals_.” Draco recognizes her insufferably bossy tone from their school years. Even sick as a dog, the witch’s strong will reigns supreme. He gives her a grudging nod, conceding to her demand.

“Fine. No healers. But if your condition worsens, I’m taking you straight to St Mungo’s.” Draco sighs, turning on his heel to head for his adjoining bathroom, as Hermione fights unconsciousness long enough to slide a soft hand to his vomit-spattered cheek.

“Thank you, Malfoy.” Her hand traces the faint blond stubble on his jawline, her fingertips grazing the edge of Draco’s mouth as her energy fades and she succumbs to oblivion. Draco shivers and pretends that his cheek and mouth are _not_ on fire from her careless touch, as he gently lowers Granger into his claw foot tub and carefully props her head against the lip. He exhales heavily again as he considers the best way to manage this bizarre, confusing mess.

_What a strange bloody night._


	2. Consciousness

__

_Sunday 16 February 2003: PM_

Hermione blinks furiously. Or rather, she tries to blink furiously, but her eyelids won’t co-operate. They are partially gummed together and merely allow fuzzy glimpses of a high white ceiling accentuated by classic cornices. Disorientation sets in; her bedroom ceiling in her modest apartment is painted a soft cream with plain wood trim, and no amount of squinting can reconcile the two images. The pale afternoon sunlight leaching into the room is also unfamiliar. Hermione is rarely still abed during the daylight hours.

Her heartbeat accelerates and her breathing stutters when she attempts to push herself to a sitting position; the soft supportive mass beneath her prone form barely shifts as her weakened limbs slip. Failing to gain traction, she is suddenly aware of her compromised physical state. Her eyes are tacky and sensitive, her head throbs as though she’s been recently kicked by an angry elephant, her entire body aches painfully and her raging thirst is a cruel counterpart to her parched mouth and throat. And her bladder is ready to burst.

Eyes closed once more, Hermione chokes back a small sob at the overwhelming helplessness and confusion that threatens to send her into a screaming panic attack. _Get ahold of yourself, woman_! She chides herself. She can and she will figure this out.

“Granger.” A controlled, cultured masculine voice to her left interrupts her silent pep talk. She knows that voice… but the tone is different… shouldn’t it be mocking, or cruel? Hermione slowly rolls her stiff neck and head in the direction the voice emanated from and carefully wills her sticky eyes to properly open and provide her with some much-needed clarity.

The figure in the chair is tall and fair-haired; the sunlight streams in from the open curtains behind the low armchair in which the man sits. He is leaning forward slightly, blessed with perfect posture that yet communicates an aspect of tension and displeasure. The combination of the backlighting and her compromised eyesight leave the man’s face a vague blur. Hermione peeks through the protective curtain of her dark lashes as his countenance slowly sharpens into focus, and her mouth gapes as her brain finally catches up.

“M-M—Malfoy?” she gasps, unable to control the nervous stammer. She instinctively pushes away from him, her muscles protesting as she barely manages to slide a few inches backward. _Everything hurts_ , she thinks miserably.

Draco straightens in the chair, slowly lifting his palms in the classic ‘no threat’ gesture. Despite her distress, Hermione can’t look away from him. This is the first time she’s clapped eyes on Malfoy since… since his trial, four years ago. She’d testified in his defence, despite Ron’s furious protestations and criticism from many of her Order friends.

The gaunt and emotionless youth she’d last seen has matured into a strong, strikingly handsome man. His white-blond hair is sharply cut – longish on top but clipped short at the back and sides to precisely frame his angular face. His eyes are a stormy grey, holding her gaze with disturbing intensity. He is clothed in a crisp white Oxford shirt and tailored navy trousers that emphasize his defined, lean musculature. _Still looks like a prince, then._

“If you’re done ogling me, Granger – perhaps we could discuss your presence in my home?” Draco drawls sardonically, a smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth as he registers Hermione’s answering blush.

“I wasn’t ogling you, Malfoy!” Hermione snaps before she can stop herself. “I was – I was assessing my surroundings… Wait, I’m in _your_ home?” her voice rises as she immediately remembers Malfoy Manor and her last ‘visit’ to his ancestral abode. The faded ‘Mudblood’ scar forcibly carved into her left forearm burns with a phantom itch as Hermione whips her head from side to side in growing panic.

“Easy, Granger. This is my townhouse, not Malfoy Manor. You’ve never been here before,” Malfoy tells her in a careful, subdued tone. His taut fingers grip the arms of his chair and he briefly shifts his regard to the floor, his face a purposefully blank mask.

Hermione calms immediately, before laboriously propping herself on her elbows. She won’t hold this odd conversation lying on her back; she feels helpless enough as things stand. Malfoy rises swiftly, leaning over her a little to prop two plump pillows behind her back. He gracefully resumes his seat before she has a chance to protest or register alarm. Hermione is left with a lingering impression of body heat and a whiff of piney cologne. _He hasn’t changed his signature scent, then._

“Are you ready to explain?” Draco abruptly queries. He is leaning forward again and doesn’t mask his impatience.

“Am I ready to explain?” Hermione parrots. “Don’t you mean – are _you_ ready to explain? Why in Godric’s name am I currently lying in a bed in your house, Malfoy?” Hermione breathes, astonished and irritated. Her usually swift brain is sluggish as a mule. Disjointed images stream through her mind’s eye as she strives to piece together her recent experiences. To her utter dismay, the last clear memory she possesses is walking into a pub for… a date? She shakes her head in a futile attempt to clear it.

Malfoy huffs in annoyance, having mistaken her headshake as a denial to offer an explanation.

“Listen, Granger – I found you passed out on my front porch at precisely half past midnight last night, bedraggled and half-alive. Against my better judgement, I brought you inside, whereupon you briefly regained consciousness and raved about being drugged – roofied? by an unidentified male. You stubbornly refused to allow me to contact any authorities for help before you proceeded to eject the entire contents of your stomach over my person and floor.” Draco’s enunciation is clear and clipped as he bites off the words with growing aggravation.

“So yes – at the very least, I expect an explanation for your imposition. Now,” his voice is an exasperated, demanding rumble. Hermione cringes as she hears the undeniable ring of truth in Malfoy’s account.

“I vomited on you?” she asks in a small voice. Embarrassment turns her ears and neck pink and her cheeks grow hot.

“Vomited, spewed, puked, hurled, retched, gagged, regurgitated, disgorged and heaved _all over me_ ,” Draco confirms, curling his upper lip in disgust. “And yourself,” he adds as an afterthought.

 _Oh Merlin. The shame_. Hermione drops her chin to her chest, thoroughly mortified. She notes soft material against her skin and realizes she is wearing an over-large unfamiliar white t-shirt of superior cotton: where did this come from? For that matter, why isn’t she still covered in puke? Her eyes widen as she senses she is not wearing a bra. She reaches down feverishly with one hand and is vastly relieved to encounter knickers banded across her hip. Her hand stills as she turns back to Malfoy.

“Where are my clothes, Malfoy?” Hermione demands. _Surely, he didn’t – he wouldn’t –_

Malfoy has no trouble following her line of thought; he draws himself up to his full regal demeanour, replying stiffly, “Cleaned and dried and waiting for you in the adjacent bathroom, Miss Granger.” He emphasizes her title with cold hauteur; if Hermione didn’t know better, she’d think him wounded.

“I have done many terrible things but violating an insensate woman who has fled to my home to seek refuge is not one of them,” Draco elucidates. His grey eyes are hard steel and bore into her own brown orbs with unflinching disapprobation.

Hermione rushes to rectify her wrong. “Malfoy, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to – “

“Don’t prevaricate, Granger. It’s unbecoming. We both know what you meant. You have my word that I bathed you and changed you without compromising your dignity or virtue. The _Scourgify_ spells I employed failed to effectively remove the stench of sick from your hair and person,” Draco clarifies coldly. The arrogance and disdain that Hermione remembers from their schooling years is distinctly displayed. In an odd way, Malfoy’s snobbish mannerisms help to ground Hermione and settle her escalating nerves and chagrin about her current situation.

“Thank you,” Hermione adopts the same aloof tone that Malfoy is wont to employ. Although it is decidedly difficult to look down her nose from her awkward pose in the bed. _Is this Malfoy’s bedroom_? She lets her curious gaze meander the bedchamber as she stalls to organize her chaotic thoughts.

The room is luxuriously spacious when compared to her own small sleeping quarters. The wall to her left is dominated by generous, gleaming windows framed by thick white curtains (currently half-opened to bathe the room in sunlight). The low modern grey armchair currently occupied by Malfoy has a twin, arranged to the right against the wall directly opposing the bed. A plain white tallboy is centered beside it, with twin wardrobe doors in the left corner. Matching chests of drawers bookmark the bed, and the open door situated in the right far corner shows a slivered view of a bathroom. The floor is wooden, with a simple dark grey rectangular woollen rug beneath the chair and tallboy. The ajar bedroom door is on her right, at the nearside corner.

Her vision muddies a little as she notices a large painting occupying most of the opposite wall, perfectly positioned for the bed’s occupant to contemplate. Hermione squinches her bleary eyes to focus more effectively, but her attention is diverted by Malfoy testily waving an elegant hand before her face.

“Granger - stop dithering and concentrate. I need some answers. Your peculiar drama has squandered much of my day already,” he grumbles. Draco launches into another inquisitorial barrage before Hermione can reply.

“What brought you to my door last night? How do you know where I live? Who drugged you? What does ‘ _roofied’_ mean?”.

Hermione winces as Malfoy’s sharp pitch exacerbates the towering headache that has been gathering momentum since she awoke. Her deteriorated bodily condition had faded to the background somewhat whilst verbally sparring with Malfoy; but Hermione is now painfully aware that her mouth is cotton-dry, her muscles are singing a song of bitter complaint… and her poor head is ready to explode.

“May I have some water, please,” Hermione whispers. She won’t look at Malfoy. Her bravado has deflated under the weight of her confused mental state and fragile body. Hermione chews her bottom lip, determined not to spill the unwanted tears welling in her eyes. She hates feeling weak and she absolutely _will not_ cry in front of the boy who relentlessly bullied her for years.

With her eyes screwed firmly shut, Hermione hears Draco sigh, then the clink of a heavy ring against glass, beside her head. She flinches automatically as Draco’s hand gently lifts her own to wrap it around a textured tumbler, her eyes winging open in shock at both the unprecedented contact and the strange electrifying buzz as his long pale fingers touch hers.

“Here. Drink a little water. Are you able to stay upright?” Draco asks quietly. The harshness that recently coloured his voice is gone. Hermione’s breathing hitches at his proximity; his hand is still wrapped around her own as he supports her grip on the water glass. A stray lock of his flaxen hair flops over his forehead as he leans over her, lending an oddly innocent charm to his face.

Mistaking Hermione’s hesitation for trepidation, Draco bends his head a little further and takes a quick nip from the glass nestled between their hands.

“It’s just water, see?”. Satisfied that she won’t drop the tumbler, he gives it a nudge closer to her mouth and finally releases his hold.

Hermione brings the water to her lips and drinks deeply, closing her eyes to mask her bewilderment. The clear liquid tastes like nectar to her abused mouth and throat, and she makes a small sound of protest as Draco takes back the glass before she can drain it.

“Small sips, Granger,” he cautions, placing it back on the chest of drawers. “Otherwise you’ll just bring it back up again.”

Hermione cringes internally as she waits for Malfoy to taunt her about regurgitation once more, but the gibe doesn’t eventuate. Instead, the tall blond man slides his hands into his trouser pockets and keenly studies her wan face.

“You must need the facilities, Granger” - he tips his head toward the adjacent bathroom door – “and something to eat.” Draco’s unexpectedly matter-of-fact tone throws Hermione off balance yet again.

He doesn’t wait for a response as he asks, “Do you need help rising? Your clothes are on the vanity and your shoes beneath.”

“No, thank you,” Hermione manages to croak in reply. She pushes her wild brunette curls out of her face, gingerly swivels her hips and slides her slender bare legs out from under the soft snowy duvet. Draco immediately snaps his eyes to the bathroom door. The borrowed t-shirt Hermione wears covers her to mid-thigh, but she is grateful for his courtesy. She trusts that Malfoy took no liberties when he’d bathed her last night; but knowing of that forced intimacy without being able to recall it exacerbates her vulnerability.

Carefully placing her bare feet on the floor, Hermione braces and stands upright, exhaling as her stiff bones protest the movement. Draco moves closer but does not touch her, instead framing her body in case she stumbles or falls. Moving to the bathroom with small shuffling steps ( _like a frail old witch_ , she thinks morosely), Draco shadows her progress and only places a steadying hand upon her back once. His hand is warm and large and jolts against her skin, even through the cotton divider.

Having successfully reached the vanity, Hermione gratefully props her sore physique against the glossy navy ceramic and rests for a moment. She’s spotted her burgundy dress arranged neatly on the counter; it is her go-to ‘first date’ outfit and underscores her hazy concept of where she was headed the night before.

Draco abruptly clears his throat.

“Right. If you feel faint or require assistance to come downstairs, shout or stamp your feet. The kitchen is directly below. Eggs and toast alright?”.

Hermione bites her tongue to prevent her jaw unhinging in shock. Draco cocks his silvery head to the side, awaiting her acceptance. She nods dumbly, trying to process the extraordinary circumstance of Draco Malfoy asking her preference for a meal he is providing. _Inconceivable_.

Malfoy begins to walk away, turning back suddenly as he gestures to her folded gown.

“There was a little beaded purse in the pocket of your dress – fortunately, I discovered it before it went into the wash,” he explains. “I placed it beside your clothing.”

 _My bag_! Hermione almost sobs in relief. Her trusty ( _Extendable_ ) charmed purse holds her all her valuables, but she will wait until Malfoy leaves to check that her wand and personal effects remain intact.

“See you downstairs,” Malfoy flatly informs her; he departs quickly and gracefully, leaving her thanks unspoken. Hermione watches him leave, admiring the long line of his flanks and economy of motion. He still moves like a deadly big cat, all fluid lines and pared muscle. Belatedly, Hermione realizes she has been gawking after Malfoy like a silly schoolgirl. She grips the cool lip of the basin and lightly presses her hot forehead to the cool glass of the mirror above it.

Hermione straightens and nods grimly at her rumpled reflection. Her nimbus of untamed russet hair and drawn features seem doubly incongruous contrasted with the gleaming dark blue tiles and pristine minimalism surrounding her.

She needs to be strong; she needs to focus; she needs some answers. And a sturdy hairbrush.

_Get dressed and get your shit together, Granger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any part of the Harry Potter franchise.


	3. Alliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: allusion to attempted sexual assault.

__

_Sunday 16 February 2003: PM_

Draco is relieved to apply himself to the mundane chore of preparing coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs; he automatically gathers and arranges the necessary ingredients and implements, setting them precisely on the dark granite benchtop kitchen island before thoroughly washing and drying his hands. He keeps his ears sharply attuned to the faint sounds of Granger moving about in the bathroom above him. His mentality is overwhelmed with unanswered questions and muddled emotions. An odd sense of cheerfulness pervades, which Draco dismisses as reaction to a variance in his otherwise mundane existence.

He measures exact spoonfuls of rich coffee grounds into the plunger as the kettle begins to whistle. Draco reminds himself to stay cool and controlled, regardless of Granger’s uncanny ability to jab at his sore spots. He pauses in the act of retrieving crockery as he recalls the moment upstairs when Granger had realized she was wearing his shirt and immediately feared that he’d molested her unconscious person – it had stung him deeply.

 _It’s not the first time people have believed you capable of rape and murder_ , he cynically reminds himself. _Best to remember that you can never outrun your past._ Draco pushes the unhappy truth from his mind and sets a single place setting on the other side of the rectangular island.

Sliding the creamy eggs onto a dish beside hot buttered toast, Draco hears Hermione’s light footsteps descending the staircase. She rounds the open kitchen door and stops abruptly, eyes wide as she glances around the large kitchen/dining space. Her abundant hair has been fashioned into a loose side plait and tied off with a scrap of black ribbon, matching her low-heeled shoes. Her claret gown hugs her slender figure faithfully, yet decorously.

Draco catches a quick impression of something small and dark in Hermione’s left hand before she balls it into her fist. He ignores the gesture, centring the breakfast plate between the cutlery setting and waving loftily at the half-pulled out white wooden stool behind it.

“Please, be seated,” Draco invites. Hermione swiftly stuffs the concealed item into the pocket of her burgundy dress and complies, climbing carefully onto the high-backed stool. She emits a tiny squeak as Draco smoothly pushes the chair closer to the island. He gets a fleeting whiff of the fragrance of his toiletries on her skin and hair and quickly retreats to the kitchen sink, leaning languidly against it and crossing his arms to face the brunette witch. _Cool and controlled_ , he repeats silently.

Hermione’s curious gaze is roaming the kitchen, flicking between her plateful of food, Draco, and the corners of the room with growing befuddlement.

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Granger?”

Hermione picks up her fork, twiddling the utensil nervously as she stares down at the piping hot eggs and toast.

“No… I was just wondering… where is your house elf?” she tentatively asks.

 _Ah. Of course_. Draco decides to have a little fun with her.

“Securely confined to the cupboard beneath the sink, of course,” he deadpans, shifting his hip to tap on its door. Draco runs his tongue slowly over his teeth to mask his grin, as Hermione frowns.

He mustn’t be entirely successful in hiding his mirth, as her forehead smooths and she retorts, “I suppose you think you’re funny, Malfoy?”.

“Not at all, Granger. I _know_ I’m funny.”

Hermione huffs and mutters, “Smart-arse,” as Draco properly liberates his grin. She frowns at him, unamused.

“Look, I was simply wondering how you got this food here so fast.” Taking a mouthful of her breakfast, her grumpy expression is swiftly replaced by pleasure as she chews and swallows. Her involuntary moan of enjoyment has Draco shifting uneasily, his eyes drawn to her sweetly curved mouth.

“These eggs are delicious!” Hermione exclaims, scooping another large bite of eggs and loading it precariously onto a piece of toast; she neatly transfers it all to her mouth without spilling a morsel.

“Mmm – the trick is a dash of full cream,” Draco informs her smugly. “And let it almost set before folding in, rather than whipping it into pieces in the pan.”

Hermione almost drops her next forkful, managing to bobble it back onto her plate before she stares at him, astonished.

“You made these? With – magic?”

“With a frypan and eggs, Granger. I don’t have a house elf. Or staff of any kind.” Draco awards himself a mental point as he glories in the witch’s puzzlement. _Oh, this is_ fun. He strolls to the end of the island, steadily gripping the French press and slowly depressing the plunger.

“May I pour you a coffee?” he politely queries.

The vivid aroma of hot java has Hermione nodding assent.

“Yes, please,” she sedately replies. She resumes eating her eggs, sneaking contemplative looks at Draco (that he pretends to ignore) as he pours the coffee into two simple white mugs. Draco pushes one toward Hermione, as well a teaspoon, one sugar cube, and a small jug of milk.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” and she wastes no time doctoring her brew before lifting the mug to her rose pink lips – _stop looking at her damn mouth_ – and making that blissful moan again. Draco busies himself by sipping his own drink and carrying the near-empty French press to the double sink. He sets down the mug and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows as he begins running hot water for the dishes.

Reaching into the ‘house elf’ cupboard for the detergent, Draco stills as Hermione asks, “How did you know I prefer coffee? With one sugar, and milk?”.

Keeping his back to her, Draco shrugs carelessly.

“I didn’t,” he counters. “I was raised to treat guests with proper hospitality. And I prefer coffee, so I made coffee,” he finishes. _It’s certainly not because I took note of every food and beverage you consumed in the Hogwarts dining hall for six years_ , he adds in his head. _Let it go, you stubborn witch._

“Hmm,” and she falls blessedly silent. It won’t last, of course. He can almost hear her canny brain ticking.

Draco empties the plunger of used grounds, washes and rinses it and leaves it to dry on the rack. He turns from the sink to discover Hermione staring at him intently. Bracing himself for another round of tenacious questioning, he is relieved when she merely inclines her head to her mostly cleared plate.

“Thank you very much; I’m afraid I couldn’t quite finish it all. It was exactly what I needed,” Hermione acknowledges. Draco nods, reaching for the dish across the island; he casually uses her discarded fork to scoop up and eat the last few pieces of food. Hermione gasps at the sight.

“You just used my fork. The fork I just had _in my mouth_ ,” she whispers, seemingly unable to look away as Draco swallows the final bite and slides the plate and cutlery into the hot dishwater.

“Sorry – that _is_ considered rude, isn’t it?” Draco admits with an offhand shrug. “I thought it less uncouth than using my fingers.”

“No – you used _my_ fork. After _I’d_ used it.” Hermione is growing increasingly agitated. “Me. A _Mudblood_.”

The ugly epithet falls between them like a dropped wineglass, shattering their unspoken temporary truce.

Draco whips back to the island and grips the granite edge furiously, knuckles strained white.

“Don’t ever use that abominable word again.” He is glacial, jaw rigid, emotions roiling beneath his cold, bitter tone. Regret, shame, and self-loathing twist his intestines into knots. Draco is grateful when his overlong fringe of platinum hair falls in a messy curtain across his eyes; he can’t bear to see the contempt on Granger’s face right now. Even though he undoubtedly deserves it.

“You called me a Mudblood almost every week at Hogwarts, since Second Year. Sometimes daily. Your Aunt Bellatrix” – her voice hitches slightly – “carved it into my arm as a permanent reminder of my wretched inferiority _. I own that fucking word now, Malfoy_. I earned it in blood and tears.” Hermione’s declaration is tremulous but composed. There is a steel core of strength to her speech that leaves no doubt as to her assignation to Gryffindor; she is a lion down to her bones.

Draco raises his head, prepared now for Hermione’s righteous indignation. He is jarred to recognize compassion in her whiskey eyes.

“I did get your letter, you know,” she tells him quietly. Closing her eyes, she recites:

“ _’Miss Granger” –_ it’s Ms., by the way _– “I apologize for repeatedly wronging you. I regret my prejudice and cruelty caused you harm. There is no exoneration for my actions. Signed, Draco Lucius Malfoy._ ’”

Hermione opens her eyes and smiles wryly. “Twenty-seven words on a piece of parchment that I analyzed, dissected, reconstructed and obsessed over for weeks. I drafted and rejected a dozen replies. Snuck into the Ministry’s Records Room and secretly copied down your address – I had some wild ideas about confronting you face-to-face to hash it all out… I suppose that’s how I knew where to come last night.” She pauses, lowering her dark lashes and biting her lower lip.

“But you didn’t reply,” Draco mutters. His fingers haven’t relinquished their death grip on the benchtop edge.

“No,” Hermione admits. “I finally decided that whatever your reasons for writing to me, your letter was designed to deter a response. And I never heard from you again – which proved my hypothesis.”

Draco unwillingly recalls the long nights spent scratching out version after version of the apology letter. He’d discarded over two dozen attempts before dashing down the simplest and most phlegmatic message he could devise, and owled it to Granger before he could change his mind. Not that he will divulge that information; explaining the motivation behind writing the fucking thing would invariably invoke pity, judgement and disgust. _Nope. Not going there._

He realizes that Granger’s regard has shifted to his bare left forearm – he’d forgotten to roll down his sleeve after washing the dishes, and his abhorrent Dark Mark is clearly exposed. Draco violently jerks down the cuff and buttons it rapidly.

“Granger – do you remember what happened to you last night?” he challenges before the clever witch can start up about the wretched demon tattoo. Hermione looks irked by Draco’s blunt change of subject, but lets it go unchallenged.

“The last clear memory I have of the evening is walking into a crowded pub,” she slowly says. “I think I was meeting a date.” Hermione drums her right hand on the polished granite and blows a stray chestnut strand out of her eyes as she looks up, remembering.

“I’ve recently joined a Muggle internet dating site – it’s like – do you know what an introduction agency is? Is that a thing for purebloods?” Hermione’s neck begins flushing and she wriggles uncomfortably on the stool, obviously embarrassed by her admission.

“Not unless you count interfering relatives,” Draco replies dryly, thinking of his mother’s ceaseless and unappreciated match-matching attempts. He motions impatiently. “Skip the explanation, I’ve heard of dating websites.”

“Right. Well.” Hermione is disconcerted but continues. “I’ve had a few matches with Muggle men and been on a couple of dates. And last night I was supposed to meet one of them… an accountant called… Christopher Atkinson?”. She hesitates. “At least, I think that’s correct. Is there a pub around here?”

“Yes, at the other end of the street and around the corner,” Draco confirms, tunnelling his hand absentmindedly through his blond locks as he mentally processes the scenario.

“Does it have a silly name? Something about a mule?” Hermione is chewing on her lip again, perturbed.

“Its official title is The Three-Legged Pony, but it’s known as The Wonky Donkey,” Draco nods. He finds himself sharing a chuckle with Granger at the ridiculous moniker; it’s not especially comical, but it helps break the lingering tension in the room from their earlier intense discussion. _She still has a sweet laugh_ … the thought pops unbidden into his head.

Hermione sighs and rubs frustratedly at the bridge of her nose.

“I can’t remember anything beyond walking through the pub door,” she complains. “I can only assume that this Christopher Atkinson spiked a roofie into my drink – but I’m careful about never leaving my drinks unattended. I don’t understand how that could have happened.”

Draco opens his mouth to ask – _again_ – what a roofie is, but Hermione is quicker.

“A roofie is slang for Rohypnol. It’s a powerful Muggle drug that produces sedative-hypnotic effects, such as muscle relaxation and amnesia. It’s called a ‘date rape’ drug for that reason. Slip it in a woman’s drink, hustle her out of a public place and she won’t be able to fight a sexual assault or remember it happening.”

Her mouth twists and trembles as she whispers, “If I hadn’t made it here – somehow – I probably would have been kidnapped and raped… used…” Hermione’s voice breaks on the last word and she wraps her arms around her torso, shivering.

“Hey, you’re alright, you’re safe -” Before he realizes his own intent, Draco moves around the kitchen island to place a gentle hand on Hermione’s hunched back, carefully patting her shoulder. The frightened witch is shaking, fine tremors transferring to Draco’s soothing hand.

“You’re safe now, Granger,” he repeats. He invokes his strongest Occlumency skills to block the pure fury raging through his veins as he witnesses one of the bravest women in the world shaking like a leaf from delayed shock and fear.

The situation carries unpleasant echoes of the helplessness and cowardice he felt on that terrible night in Malfoy Manor. Draco strenuously reminds himself that spinelessly watching his deranged aunt torture and disfigure Granger on the parlour floor is a horror and mistake of his past, not his present. This is a chance to make amends for his sins - although to a much lesser extent. _I won’t turn away this time_ , Draco vows silently.

Perhaps a minute ticks by before Hermione comes back to herself, blinking away the unshed tears in her eyes and straightening in her chair; Draco’s hand falls away and he awkwardly tucks it into his pocket. He feels peculiarly nervous, as though he’s crossed an impalpable line.

Clearing his throat, Draco queries sharply, “This ‘Christopher Atkinson’ maggot – you’re certain he’s a Muggle?”

Hermione nods, swiveling her hips to better face him as she fiddles with the end of her long plait.

“I’ve no reason to think otherwise, Malfoy,” she quietly replies. Her voice is edged with fatigue; she is visibly wilting, shoulders drooping. _Stubborn little bint needs to rest and recuperate_ , Draco thinks exasperatedly. He shouldn’t have ignored his primary instinct to take her straight to St Mungo’s – consequences be damned.

Still, Draco gentles his tone as he tells Hermione, “Have you considered the possibility that your ‘date’ was a part of a complex trap? That this ‘Muggle’ is a wizard in disguise?”. He watches her intently as her clever brain jumps ahead almost immediately.

“What aren’t you telling me, Malfoy?” Hermione demands, honey-brown eyes flashing indignantly. “I deserve to know!”

“Don’t boss me, Granger,” Draco warns. “I’m not one of your Golden Trio underlings to order about,” he growls. _Salazar - give me strength!_ He shoves his rising temper into another Occlumency lockbox. For a wonder, Hermione stays silent. Her lips press into a thin line of displeasure.

“As I was beginning to tell you, before you rudely interrupted –“ Draco ignores Hermione’s scornful huff – “I collected a sample of your vomit and tested it this morning. It did contain Muggle drug compounds… as well as minute traces of Ashwinder egg, valerian sprigs, rose thorns, mistletoe berries and Lethe River water,” he finishes sombrely.

“Oh, shit,” Hermione gasps, wringing her delicate hands in agitation. Shocked comprehension, anger, and fear ripple across her expressive visage as Hermione ruminates, “Ingredients commonly found in Lust, Sleeping, and Forgetfulness potions… combined with a Muggle roofie… highly experimental, illegal, and incredibly dangerous – “ she trails off in distress.

“Exactly,” Draco grimly concurs. He fights the odd compulsion to physically comfort the miserable witch, choosing instead to trigger her legendary fighting spirit.

“This is too much for you to handle alone, Granger,” Draco arrogantly intones, straightening to his full height and deliberately looking down his nose at her. “We need to contact the Ministry and hand it over to them. Now.” _One, two, three_ … he ticks off the seconds in his head.

“Don’t boss _me_ , Malfoy,” Hermione growls. Draco suppresses his gratified smirk. Predictable Gryffindors.

“There is no way I’m taking this to the Ministry. Not with paltry scraps of information and missing memories. I just need some time to investigate and figure out it all out. I can handle this myself,” Hermione insists.

“Which of us are you trying to convince?” Draco quips sardonically. “You’re not infallible, Granger. Set aside your precious bloody pride for a moment and accept my ungracious assistance, for Merlin’s sake. You dragged me into this shambles – you’re stuck with me now.” Before Hermione can rally for another round of fuming righteousness, Draco carefully clasps her elbow and guides her to stand.

“Look at you, witch – you’re fading fast. You need to go home, take a few days off work, and recover from your physical and emotional trauma. We’ll revisit our discussion later in the week.” Draco is surprised that Hermione remains passive in his light hold. She must be feeling quite depleted.

“I’d offer my Floo for transport, but I’m not confident you’re well enough to get home in one piece. And you’re certainly not fit to Apparate by yourself. What’s a landmark close to your home?” he prompts.

A few moments of hesitation; Draco steels himself for Hermione’s inevitable arguments and vocalized distrust. Neither eventuate.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Foots Cray Meadows?” Hermione inquires quietly. “I live a few streets away from the south western corner.”

Draco nods, remembering his long solitary rambles through London’s Muggle parks and historical sites. He snaps his fingers as it comes to him.

“All Saints Church is beside Foots Cray Meadows, yes? I know it. Does that suit?” and Hermione nods wonderingly. Her chocolate brown eyes search Draco’s face keenly; he resists the inclination to squirm beneath her steadfast scrutiny.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” she murmurs, holding his skittish gaze.

Draco opens and closes his mouth pointlessly a few times – _I must look like a right daft tosser, brilliant_ – before seizing on a distraction.

“This is for you,” he pulls a small plasticky rectangular box and a stoppered glass tube from his trouser pocket and slides them into her left palm, closing her fingers around the items. “The vial contains Wiggenweld Potion. It’s safe, I made it earlier.”

Draco looks uncomfortable as he adds, “And a sealed box of paracetamol – I completely understand that you may wish to avoid any potion you haven’t personally brewed.”

Hermione grips the tokens a little tighter, exhaling shakily before stuffing them in her pocket. The tiny dark object that she’d stowed in there as she’d entered the kitchen falls to the floor; Draco bends to retrieve it before she can stop him. It is soft, brown, and springy and looks weirdly familiar…

“Granger – is this a clump of your hair?” Draco asks, astonished.

Hermione tries to snatch it out of his grasp; his superior height and reach easily evade her efforts, the hairball dangling above their heads like a grotesque mistletoe.

“Give it back, Malfoy – it’s mine!” she scrabbles fruitlessly after it as Draco begins to chortle.

“You’re barmy, you know that, right?” he teases.

Hermione ceases her ineffectual clumsy leaping and glares daggers at him.

“I used your fancy silver hairbrush in the bathroom, alright? But I thought - Malfoy will lose his tiny little mind if I don’t clean it out… and then I smelled fresh coffee and forgot I was still holding it. Happy now? You supercilious git,” she mutters.

Draco is still chuckling as he relents, handing her back the fuzzy cluster. Hermione shoves it roughly back into her pocket, mutely seething. His attention drawn to Hermione’s clothing, Draco holds up his left index finger to wait, as a pertinent thought suddenly comes to his mind; he darts quickly to the foyer.

He returns wearing the matching navy jacket to his trousers and holds out his urbane black pea coat, bundling Hermione into the oversized garment and nimbly fastening each large ebony button before she has a chance to protest.

“Come on, Granger. Let’s get you home before you hex me into next week. Ready?”

They reach for each other’s forearms simultaneously and hold tight, as Draco Apparates them both to the ancient medieval Saxon church with a faint crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any part of the Harry Potter franchise.


	4. Deliberation

__

_Monday 17 February 2003: AM_

Hermione sits at her tiny table, sipping a mug of the strongest coffee she could find in her modest pantry. Yesterday evening, she’d set her customary 6AM alarm for work in a foolish fit of rebellion; a decision she’d regretted as soon as it had shrilled insistently in her ear two hours ago. The multitude of lingering physical discomforts and overarching mental fuzziness had her reluctantly acceding to Draco’s advice to call in sick for the day.

Her brief Floo call to her supervisor needn’t have been met with such open-mouthed consternation at her temporary absence, Hermione thinks waspishly. Marilda Sandore had positively goggled at the news and insistently pushed for Hermione to immediately consult a Healer and owl her the results. Somehow Hermione had held her temper and coolly pointed out that the nature of her illness was confidential, as was her decision whether to seek medical assistance. Knowing that Marilda meant well and was genuinely concerned for her wellbeing helped soothe Hermione’s irritation at her supervisor’s overstep.

Swallowing another blessed mouthful of coffee, Hermione lets her eyes wander her humble lodgings. Her middling salary as a fledgling lawyer in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn’t allow for much outside of paying for the basics and a careful savings plan.

She cannot help but draw comparisons between her small (mostly) serviceable kitchen and Draco’s gleaming gallery. Hermione habitually keeps her home clean and tidy, but her love of books spills out into almost every room of her flat, including the kitchen. Consequently, her home appears cosy ( _not_ cluttered), she reassures herself.

And yet – compared to Draco’s expensive real estate – her one bedroom flat seems positively cramped and lacking a cohesive décor. Most of her furniture has been sourced from cheap furniture shop chains, jumble sales, or flea markets. The flimsy wooden table she is currently seated at was brought home from a yard sale and its cream paint is uneven and slightly scratched. Hermione chose every item in her home because she liked it or particularly needed it; but it would be lovely to buy everything new and complementary, she reflects wistfully. Then laughs at her inanity – she has everything she needs and is grateful for it.

But thinking about Malfoy’s townhouse leaves Hermione with a distinct sense of bewildered dissonance. Not only is he living in the categorically Muggle upscale neighbourhood of St John’s Wood, but he’s chosen to decorate his domicile in the style of… Hermione settles on ‘Scandinavian minimalism’, absentmindedly tapping her slim index finger against her glossy ceramic mug. Lots of natural light, pale wood, clean lines: beautiful and functional simplicity. Expensive, of course – _impossible to imagine a Malfoy hunting for battered bargains in a yard sale_ – but fundamentally opposed to the oppressive Gothic sumptuousness of Malfoy Manor. Nary a peacock in sight.

Hermione is aware that mulling over Draco’s diametric change of dwelling is her way of avoiding addressing the highly dangerous ordeal she underwent on Saturday night; the fact that she was drugged and helpless and almost abducted has her breath shortening and stomach clenching in dread. She sets aside her half-drunk coffee and rests her still-aching head on her hands, willing herself to inhale and exhale slowly. Not being able to recall how she escaped from the perilous scene is frustrating and frightening, but she did evade her would-be assailant. By fleeing to Draco Malfoy. _Draco Malfoy_.

Not only that: she felt safe with Malfoy. The boy who bullied her regularly for years somehow became the man who protected her from harm. Brought her into his home, cleaned up her vomit, bathed and clothed her, put her to bed and made her a meal. Gave her medicine, lent her his coat, and walked her to her door. Incredible. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d infer that Malfoy must have been Imperiused into behaving like a Good Samaritan.

Certainly, Malfoy hasn’t foregone any of his most irritating qualities: arrogant, haughty, impatient, blunt. Quick with a cutting rejoinder. Wickedly teasing – his stunt with her silly hairball, for example.

And yet… Draco had reassured her of her safety when she’d almost begun crying in shocked reaction, patting her shoulder gently, calming her fears. He’d been unmistakably incensed – and ashamed - when she’d used the term Mudblood. He’d used her fork to eat her leftovers… and then _shrugged indifferently_ when she’d pointed it out. Draco had gone to the trouble of analyzing the nefarious substance that roofied her and had insisted that he remain involved in her troubles.

Hermione doesn’t have the foggiest idea of how to make sense of the conflicting vignettes of Draco Malfoy. Is his apparent reluctant kindness a new facet of his character? Or was it part of him all along, suppressed by his familial conditioning of blood prejudice and snobbery?

And what of her unexplained decision to seek out Malfoy in the first place? _What does that say about my headspace?_ Hermione wonders. For the fiftieth time this morning, she tries to remember more details about that hazy night. It’s no use – she cannot recall anything from Saturday night after she entered the pub, until she awoke in Malfoy’s bed on Sunday afternoon. “Bloody buggering bollocks,” Hermione grouses aloud.

Booting up her computer last night had failed to shed any light on the identity of ‘Christopher Atkinson’. His profile on Match.com no longer exists, and the website’s personal messaging feature had been deleted of their initial communications and arrangement to meet at the Wonky Donkey. Hermione had quickly drafted and sent an email to the company requesting contact details for the mystery man, but she has little hope that she will receive any reply beyond a polite refusal citing members’ rights to privacy. Barring a formal notice being served by the Muggle police, Hermione is unhappily aware that asking the website for more information is another dead end.

If ‘Christopher Atkinson’ is indeed a wizard pretending to be a Muggle for the purposes of entrapping Hermione in a violent nightmare (and there can be little doubt of that, after Draco’s revelations about the potion ingredients), she has to figure out what the hell is going on as quickly as possible. And she’d rather keep the investigation private. At least until she has a bit more to go on than a vial of vomit and a deleted dating profile. Supposing that the Ministry takes her seriously. Plenty of her professional colleagues harbour resentment about her unsought fame and acclaim. Being called ‘the Golden Girl’ serves as a popular snide insult, as well as homage. Weather permitting, Hermione has taken to eating her lunch in a nearby park after regularly overhearing derogatory comments in the Ministry’s cafeteria.

And despite the Ministry promising complete confidentiality – someone always talks. Usually to the Daily Prophet. Hermione winces as she flashes back to the media shitstorm when her messy break-up with Ron became public last year. Her teeth involuntarily grind together as she muses on how that sly bitch Rita Skeeter conducted the frenzy like a maestro, dribbling just enough snippets of dubious ‘alleged’ misinformation that Hermione hadn’t been able to outright accuse her of libel.

This sluggish vacillation is foreign to Hermione’s usual personality: she is used to having all the answers. Swiftly weighing up the options, formulating plans and charging into action. Now she feels lost, uncertain, afraid.

And confused. Hermione blames the lingering effects of her poisoned drink for the enhanced physical allurement she felt towards Malfoy yesterday. Bad enough he’d caught her gawking at him when she’d awoken and called her out on it; when his hand had guided hers to the water glass, she’d experienced an actual _zing_ race through her body at the simple touch. Ditto when he’d subtly stroked her shoulder to calm her down… and after they’d Apparated to Foot’s Cray Meadows, undeniable heat had burned through her when Draco placed his hand at the small of her back as they’d crossed the street and walked to her flat. Just as when Malfoy had steadied her progress as she’d wobbled to his bathroom, various layers of clothing hadn’t seemed to make any difference to the unusually intense sensation.

Rationally, Hermione knows that Malfoy was merely acting out of ingrained good manners and old-fashioned Pureblood chivalry. Reading anything more into Draco’s occasional solicitous gestures is ridiculous; he would have done the same for any sick witch who landed on his doorstep. Possibly. Probably. Definitely.

Besides, Draco has always been a handsome devil and a graceful prat, Hermione unwillingly accedes. She can appreciate his sophisticated masculine beauty without it meaning anything other than having two working eyes. Avidly watching Draco yesterday was simply a combination of the potion’s effects and Hermione’s driving need to solve a puzzle.

Once the modified ‘roofie’ potion completely wears off, Hermione is confident that her sudden surges of cupidity for the tall blond Slytherin will also disappear. Obviously, her hormones are sadly out of whack thanks to unwittingly imbibing a lust concoction. Which also explains why she is wearing Malfoy’s expensive black coat around her flat instead of her dressing gown; it’s not her fault that he smells so damnably good. Draco’s cologne clings to the garment and Hermione can’t stop savouring small sniffs of the entrancing olfactory combination of layered citrus, pine, warm grass and cedar: smoky, woodsy, earthy and fresh.

The same redolent scent still clings to Hermione’s skin and hair… leaving her to visualize Malfoy washing her unconscious form on Saturday night. Her hair is relatively tangle-free: Draco must have dumped a crazy amount of lush conditioner in it to avoid a wild frizz. Apart from her parents (when she was a child) no one has ever performed that verily intimate service for her before. Not even Ron, and he was her boyfriend for the better part of four years.

Hermione is still contemplating the baffling dichotomy of Draco’s recent behaviours when she hears movement in her living room and a brief flash of green light. She has barely risen from her chair when a familiar voice rings out.

“Hermione? Are you home? It’s me,” yells Harry Potter.

“Harry!” She rounds the corner in a mad rush, nearly knocking over her black-haired friend as he steps out of her Floo fireplace. Hermione hugs Harry tightly, her melancholy disposition immediately uplifted by the comforting embrace. Her long-time friend looks a little tired and rumpled, his crimson Auror robes still bearing traces of grime and wear. Hermione smiles tremulously at his habitual dishevelment; her eyes are suspiciously damp as her haphazard emotions threaten to take hold.

“Hey, are you ok?” Harry steps back a little, his bright green eyes searching hers worriedly. “I heard on the Ministry grapevine that you weren’t at work today – is everything alright?”. Harry rubs her arm soothingly. Hermione is exceedingly relieved that Harry’s touch fails to trigger any sensual reaction. _Thank Merlin – the potion must have worked its course._

Hermione sniffs back her impending tears at the joyful realization that her bodily autonomy is restored. She is even able to (mostly) suppress her irritation upon hearing that Marilda wasted little time sharing the earth-shattering information that Hermione had taken a day off work.

“Harry, I thought you were in Germany for another week at least?” Hermione questions, making her own quick assessment. Apart from needing a hot shower and a definite change of garb, Harry looks wonderfully normal and physically unscathed. Harry doesn’t like to talk shop during their infrequent catch-ups, but Hermione knows (from the blasted Ministry grapevine, of course) that Harry’s team of Aurors have been as busy as a blue-arsed fly for the past six weeks, tracking a ring of suspected Neo-Death Eaters across Europe.

“Just got in this morning,” Harry admits, scraping his right hand through his shock of raven hair in a hopeless attempt to restore order to natural chaos. “Came straight here because I can’t remember the last day you took a day off work without being forcibly hospitalized,” he declares half-jokingly. His grin fades as he scrutinizes her pale complexion. “Seriously though, Hermione – are you unwell? Can I do anything?”.

For a fleeting moment, Hermione deliberates confessing the whole muddled tale of her bizarre weekend to Harry. Just opening her mouth and blurting out the fantastical, disorienting, ridiculous and downright discombobulating experience to her oldest friend would unquestionably ease her burden… but it would have the counter effect of significantly increasing Harry’s stressors. Hermione feels guilty enough that her failed romantic relationship with Ron placed Harry in the unenviable position of piggy-in-the-middle during their strained break-up. It is primarily because of Harry’s persistent peacekeeping efforts that Hermione and Ron have been able to revisit a warily civil version of their triumvirate alliance.

Also, Harry is fiercely protective of Hermione’s safety. He would activate every Auror on the Ministry’s books to track down the perpetrator of the crime committed against her – and she’d be back to square one, facing another media maelstrom. Thousands of wizards and witches privy to her personal pain… judging and censoring her actions and motives. The multiplied weight of condemnatory stares that already follow her every move.

No. She can’t tell Harry - not yet, anyway. Especially regarding Draco Malfoy’s involvement. Harry testified in Draco’s defence at his trial, but Hermione knows that Harry retains considerable mistrust and skepticism of his old school nemesis. Hearing that Malfoy is involved – however innocuously – would likely spark Harry’s infamous quick temper and an impulsive hot-headed reaction.

Hermione bites her lip as she states reassuringly, “It’s nothing serious, Harry. I’m not feeling quite the thing this morning. Even I’m allowed to throw a sickie once in a blue moon without the Ministry collapsing, you know,” she gently mocks his overprotectiveness. It is nice to know that someone cares about her.

“Can I make you a cuppa?” Hermione asks, sliding her hand to Harry’s sinewy forearm as she turns for the kitchen. Harry doesn’t have Ron’s bulk, but his Auror training has beefed up his wiry physique admirably. He’s an attractive man, and the closest thing Hermione has to a brother; she is doubly glad that the ‘roofie’ potion has worn off. Uncontrollably lusting after _Harry_ would be too icky for words.

Harry regretfully shakes his head in refusal. “Sorry love, I can’t stay. Just wanted to make sure you’re safe and well. Later this week, maybe? I’m free Friday night – come for supper?”

Shelving her disappointment, Hermione readily agrees. “Friday night works for me. I’ll bring dinner to Grimmauld Place around seven?”. Her whiskey eyes cloud over as she hesitantly qualifies: “If that’s OK with Ginny?”.

Harry slowly blinks once. “We’re ‘off’ again,” he informs Hermione quietly. “She moved back to the Burrow while I was abroad.”

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry –“ but her sympathy is interrupted by Harry’s resolute gesture to desist.

“I’m alright, don’t worry. I’m starting to realize that we both have issues to work through,” he admits, both hands unconsciously tugging at his shaggy jet mop before he rubs his palms against his robes and holds his arms out again.

“Enough of this sad sack crap – let’s hug it out, witch,” Harry laughs. Hermione obeys, her generous heart aching for Harry. The current bad blood between her and Ginny doesn’t mean that she is anything other than sad for her friend. _I just want Harry to find – and keep – the happiness he so richly deserves_ , Hermione reflects sorrowfully.

“Hey, what’s this fancy coat you’re wearing?” Harry inquires curiously, his fingers rubbing at the lapels as he withdraws from their embrace. “Is this cashmere?” he whistles softly. “Wizard-made if I’m not mistaken. Finally spending some of your hard-earned Galleons on some upmarket threads, hmm?” Harry teases further. “It’s a few sizes too big for you though. Where’s that ratty pink dressing gown you usually favour?”

Her mind racing, Hermione temporizes, “It’s in the wash – and it’s not ratty, it’s comfortable, Harry. The coat is… something I’m flirting with. That’s all,” Hermione defends. _Well, that’s not entirely untrue_ , she rationalizes. Fortunately, Harry lets his curiosity drop.

“I’ll see you Friday,” Harry promises. He places a light fraternal kiss upon her forehead before he steps back into the fireplace, grabs a pinch of Floo powder and vocalizes, “The Ministry of Magic!” before disappearing in a puff of emerald smoke.

Sighing, Hermione wraps her arms around her middle and stares unseeingly at the spot Harry recently occupied. Part of her cannot believe that she has just chosen to keep Draco Malfoy as her sole confidante and - _how did he couch it?_ – ungracious ally. As Hagrid is wont to say - Gallopin’ Gorgons! How did her life morph into an outlandish circus?

And isn’t it well past time that she took off this wickedly beguiling Draco-infused pea coat??


	5. Discourse

__

_Wednesday 19 February: PM_

Fumbling with the simple rectangular silver cufflink, Draco swears pithily as it falls to the carpeted floor, twice tumbling before coming to rest against his polished black dragon leather shoe. He impatiently crouches to pick it up, closing his hand around the offending accessory before lithely rising.

Draco stills as he slowly opens his palm, frowning down at the cufflink. Why is he edgy? He’s felt off-kilter ever since Granger erupted into his life and shattered his hard-fought tranquility. A walking, talking brunette _Bombarda Maxima_ , he cynically reflects. And yet here he is, readying to meet with the exasperating witch. _At my own suggestion_ , Draco derides himself. 

He’d owled Hermione on Monday afternoon: imagining her likely aggravation at his uncompromising brusque epistle makes him snicker.

‘Ms. Granger -

We need to talk.

Meet me at _La Stalla_ restaurant on the High Street, Foots Cray.

Wednesday, 6PM sharp.

 _D.L.M._ ’

Oh, how he would’ve enjoyed seeing the vexation on Granger’s face as she read it… She probably was unable to resist childishly stamping her little foot. The thought cheers Draco considerably and he easily locks the errant cufflink into place, automatically tugging the sleeves of his obsidian silk shirt into position and minutely straightening his similarly hued tie.

Before he Apparates to Foots Cray, Draco dons his midnight blue suit jacket and slips his wallet into the pocket of his matching trousers. He nimbly descends the stairs two at a time, recalling Granger’s equally terse reply.

‘Mr. Malfoy –

Make it 6.30PM.

You’re paying for dinner.

 _H.J.G_.’

Plucking his black scarf off the hallway rack, Draco catches sight of his reflection in the nearby filigree mirror; his attire is impeccable - _of course_ \- but he is perturbed by the cretinous grin stretching across his visage and immediately resets his face into his usual inscrutable mask. There. Much improved. He’d prefer to maintain his reputation as a debonair popinjay than look like a simpering village idiot.

The sun has almost set when Draco arrives at the Meadows a few moments later. Tilting his wrist, Draco checks his watch: it’s just gone 6.00PM. He has plenty of time to reach the restaurant and the brisk walk will help to keep him warm. He tucks his hands into his pockets and sets off in the correct direction.

Twenty minutes later, Draco is seated at the best booth in _La Stalla_ , having glibly charmed the flustered young waitress into leading him to the cosy spot at the back of the small inside dining area. The trattoria’s appearance hasn’t altered since his last visit; the establishment looks a little tired and dated, but the exquisite authentic Italian menu is well worth overlooking the slight shabbiness. At this early hour, only a dozen other diners are scattered throughout the restaurant. The quiet hum of their conversations is broken by an occasional shouted order in Italian spilling through the kitchen door as the waitstaff come and go.

The ornate oversized clock on the wall beside the entrance shows 6.30PM exactly as Hermione appears through the glass door. Draco rises to his feet as Granger strides inside: she warmly responds to the greeting of the same young server who led him to the booth. The waitress immediately cuts her eyes to Draco and says something that makes Hermione blush faintly, before directing her to their table.

The handful of seconds it takes Hermione to walk to him gives Draco just enough time to appraise the witch’s presentation and condition: he is satisfied to discern that she appears robust, healthy and determined. _Intent on taking me down a peg or two_ , Draco guesses with surreptitious amusement. The dogged Gryffindor gleam in her eye is a dead giveaway.

Draco maintains unbroken eye contact as Hermione approaches; her chocolate eyes sparkle as her shoulders resolutely straighten in response to his challenging gaze. He nods in silent greeting as he smoothly helps her out of her oversized onyx greatcoat ( ** _my_** _pea coat_ , he amends), swiftly folding it and sliding it beside her as she sits down in the opposite arm of the booth. She places her over-full satchel atop the garment.

Granger is stylishly dressed in professional Muggle business attire: a hunter green knee-length pencil skirt and matching blazer in a subtle embossed herringbone pattern. The nipped-in waist of the jacket accentuates the gentle flare of her hips and narrow midriff, while the scalloped lace trim on the opaque silky black camisole she wears beneath the jacket draws the eye to the creamy flesh below her fine collarbones. Hermione’s riotous chestnut curls are pulled off her face and into a half up-do with sturdy combs. Draco’s regard is drawn to Hermione’s raspberry-tinted mouth as she swipes the tip of her pink tongue across her bottom lip.

Swallowing convulsively, Draco belatedly realizes he is still standing upright when Hermione jibes,

“Do you plan to eat on your feet tonight, Malfoy? Or is this a new intimidation tactic you’re trying on for size?”. Her tone is dryly acerbic, but Draco hears the unmistakable buzz of excitation layering her words.

 _Why, Granger delights in our verbal stoushes just as much as I do_ , he suddenly realizes. The epiphany allows him to swiftly recover his composure; Draco deliberately tracks his slate-coloured eyes back over Hermione’s svelte form, bestowing her with his slowest, raunchiest smile. He is immediately gratified when the pulse in the hollow of Hermione’s throat jumps erratically and the tips of her little ears flush red.

Draco calmly regains his seat, ignoring Hermione’s taunt to ask a question of his own.

“What did the waitress say to you to make you blush, Granger?” he abruptly probes. He picks up his water glass and imbibes a leisurely sip, eyes trained unblinkingly on Granger’s mobile features.

Hermione tosses her hair back off her shoulder with an irritated flip of her hand.

“She told me I was very lucky to have such a handsome boyfriend, if you must know,” Hermione replies witheringly. “Another fair maiden fallen victim to your pretty face, apparently,” she scoffs. Her eyes widen at her inadvertent admission and she rushes to pick up her menu.

“What’s good here, Malfoy? I’m starving,” and Draco lets loose a rich chuckle at her clumsy attempt to change the subject. Fine. He’ll let that go. For now.

Without bothering to consult the bill of fare, Draco advises, “Everything. I’m having the garlic and ricotta calzone, chicken saltimbocca and tiramisu.”

Flipping through the menu pages, Hermione groans a little. “Oh, yum! I love Italian food, it’s so moreish. Mmm, let me see…” her voice trails off as she becomes engrossed in her selections.

Granger’s enthusiasm bleeds into everything, Draco muses as he watches Hermione tuck a stray burnished curl behind the shell of her left ear. She nods once and shuts her menu with a decisive snap, smiling guilelessly at him.

“Right. I’ve made my choices,” Hermione announces firmly. Their waitress has been hovering nearby, fascinated by their little adversarial tableau; she eagerly advances with her pencil and notepad at the ready, as Hermione slides her menu to the side.

“May I take your orders?” the girl asks politely. Draco nods and gestures to Hermione to begin.

“I’d like the Caprese salad for entrée and the mushroom risotto, please,” Hermione recites.

“No dessert?” Draco murmurs.

Hermione shakes her head, tawny curls bouncing. “No. I might have a coffee though.”

“And for you, sir?” their waitress continues, scribbling adeptly.

Repeating his earlier selections, Draco pauses to beckon the girl a little closer. He whispers a final request in her ear, smirking as he looks up at Hermione’s displeased expression.

Their waitress beams at him.

“Certainly, sir. And can I bring either of you a beverage? We have a lovely Lambrusco for tonight’s wine special.”

Draco’s smile slips a little, but he answers easily, “Just water for me, thank you.”

Hermione concurs and the young woman casts a final admiring glance at Draco before hurrying back to the kitchen. Expecting her to launch into castigating him for apparently flirting with the waitress, Draco is surprised when Hermione only huffs disapprovingly and stacks her hands atop each other on the table, lips pursed thinly.

“Tell me why you – I’m not going to say _invited_ , that implies choice – ordered me to meet you tonight,” Hermione tersely challenges.

 _Ah, Gryffindors… ever unwillingly to beat around the bush._ Draco shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“Skipping the niceties of polite conversation, eh Granger?” he tut-tuts.

A dangerous light fires in Hermione’s amber eyes; she begins to rise from her padded seat as she hisses back, “Listen, Malfoy – I’ve had a long day at the Ministry, I’m beyond ravenous, and I possess absolutely no patience for whatever game you’re playing, so kindly –“

Hermione’s rant suspends as Draco reaches across to lightly wrap his lean fingers around her wrist.

“Granger. Stop. Sit down, please.” She stands still, looking down at his ivory skin half-obscuring her darker olive tones, and chews at her voluptuous lower lip.

Draco drags his eyes away from the captivating mannerism, risking a featherlight stroke of his index finger along Hermione’s delicate pisiform bone. She shivers at the touch but doesn’t shy away.

“Please,” he repeats softly, his eyes silvery orbs of solemn intensity. “I promise not to tease you again.”

For a pendulous moment, Draco is certain that he’s pushed Hermione too far; finally, she resolutely juts her chin. Their hands break contact simultaneously as she lowers back onto the booth seat and they both exhale as the tension disperses.

“Have you remembered anything else about Saturday night yet?” Draco asks quietly. He isn’t surprised when Hermione shakes her head in negation.

“Not a thing,” and her frustration is evident.

“Right. I had an idea about how you could access those memories. But it requires a leap of trust on your part,” Draco carefully informs her.

“Trust… in you?” Hermione promptly clarifies, raising her head to study Draco keenly. Her acute scrutiny brings a warm bloom to his alabaster neck, which Draco wills to recede. _Her eyes are like fucking lasers sometimes_ , he thinks irritably. Which is an ironic observation, given his next words.

“Yes. I propose to attempt Legilimency to unlock your trapped recollections. With your full consent and trust,” Draco replies dispassionately. “There’s no guarantee that it will work – but we don’t have much else to go on.”

Granger slumps against the back of the booth, clearly nonplussed.

“You’re a Legilimens.” It’s not a question. “That’s not a skill taught in the classrooms of Hogwarts, Malfoy.” An odd expression flits across her face as she continues to study him intently. _Is it criticism? Judgement? Respect?_ Draco can’t decide.

“You of all people should know that war taught us things we had no business knowing,” he adroitly deflects. He doesn’t care for Granger to throw more stones down that dark well; this isn’t about him, anyway.

Their entrées arrive, the rich smells of Italian cheese and herbs permeating their booth in seconds. _Thank Merlin._ Draco almost sighs in relief and applies himself to serving Granger a slice of calzone.

Hermione tries to wave away the fragrant stuffed bread. “No – that’s your dish. Thank you,” but her pert nose practically twitches as Draco brings the serve closer to her plate.

“You’re worried about having garlic breath,” Draco guesses. “Well, now I insist upon you trying some, Granger. I refuse to be alone in garlicky dishonour,” he smiles. Hermione’s mouth curves into a frank grin and she pushes her plate closer. She picks up the slice and takes an ostentatiously large bite, chewing in delight. Draco follows suit, enjoying her uninhibited pleasure in the food.

Hermione copies Draco’s tactic and presses half her Caprese salad onto his plate; the fresh tomatoes, mozzarella and drizzled virgin olive oil are just as tasty as the calzone. The pair focus on doing justice to their meal, expressing appreciative comments about same and engaging in a desultory conversation about Draco’s travel experiences in Italy.

The Legilimency proposition isn’t referred to again until their ubiquitous server clears the entrées and provides a fresh carafe of water. Hermione rests her hands in her lap and looks apprehensively at Draco.

She opens and closes her mouth twice before asking hesitantly, “Does it – does it always hurt? The Legilimency probe, I mean.” Her dark eyes are dulled by remembered pain and terror. Draco clenches his jaw as he understands why. Bellatrix Lestrange.

“No. Knowing Bellatrix, she probed your psyche as viciously as possible.” _Cool and controlled_ – the mantra is difficult to hold on to at present as Draco witnesses Hermione trembling across the table.

He clears his throat and continues his explanation.

“A skilled Legilimens will enter your mind gently and respectfully. You shouldn’t feel anything more than a… light caress. The faintest sensation of another consciousness within your own.”

Shrugging resignedly, Draco finishes, “Of course, having the full consent of the subject makes an enormous difference to the process. And I would stop if (and when) I sensed the slightest discomfort on your part.” _This was a harebrained idea_ , he berates himself. Granger isn’t ready.

He is poised to withdraw his ill-considered offer when Hermione vehemently blurts, “I’ll do it.”

“You were about to tell me to forget about it, weren’t you?” the plucky witch accuses him. “I saw your face – you think I’m too soft, too weak to handle it.” Hermione is incandescent with fierce valour: she appears ready to slay a dragon with her butter knife, should one be foolish enough to accost her.

“Granger, I believe you could rule the world - if you were so inclined,” Draco candidly reveals. “You’re brilliant, driven, powerful… Loyal and principled. Harry Potter was damned fortunate to have you by his side.” _As for the Weasel – he was always punching well above his weight,_ he reflects sourly but silently. Draco uncomfortably realizes he’s already said too much; Hermione appears positively gobsmacked at his unexpected plaudits.

Their mains arrive: Draco vows to give the young waitress the biggest tip of her life in appreciation of her impeccable timing. Hermione continues to gape at Draco as he apportions a healthy serve of the chicken saltimbocca onto her plate and helps himself to some of her mushroom risotto without consultation. She presses her lips together firmly but the tiny upward curves at the corners of her mouth suggest she is amused by his audacious persistence in sharing their meals.

“When can we begin?” Hermione asks neutrally once she has made a decent dent in the delicious food on her plate.

Draco fastidiously dabs his napkin to his mouth before he answers, “As soon as possible would be best. Are you free tomorrow night?”.

Hermione nods. “Yes. My place or yours?” Her face turns scarlet at her unintentional misuse of the hackneyed phrase, whilst Draco narrowly avoids choking on his bite of prosciutto-wrapped herbed chicken.

“That’s – I didn’t mean – not like that, _obviously_ –“ Hermione is fluttering her hands above in the table in frustrated panic as Draco takes a much-needed gulp of water. Remembering his promise, he is mindful not to succumb to the temptation to tweak her over the faux pas.

“Your choice, Granger,” Draco replies coolly, projecting indifference as he gracefully flicks a hand through his platinum mane. “Owl me in the morning.”

“Yes. Right. I will. Owl you. Tomorrow,” Hermione’s uncustomarily flustered staccato delivery is rather adorable, Draco decides. _I’m enjoying this dinner far too much_ ; he thinks with a frown. Lost in their own thoughts, they finish their mains in silence.

It isn’t until the tiramisu arrives – sliced in half, along with two share plates and dessert forks that the waitress sets down with a flourish – that Hermione addresses Draco again.

“This is what you were asking her, earlier,” she states. “You weren’t chatting her up.” She twirls the small fork in her hand, staring at him thoughtfully. Her head tips to one side and a russet curl brushes delicately against the elegant curve of her throat, before she impatiently pushes it back into place.

Draco murmurs indolently, “You _will_ persevere in thinking the worst of me, Granger. I don’t come on to random women while I’m dining with another. I’m not crass.” He helps himself to the luscious liqueur dessert, savouring the flavours of coffee and cream. Hermione takes the hint and tastes her own serving, moaning a little in appreciation. Draco watches from lowered lashes as she slowly draws out the fork from between her lips, before eagerly partaking of more tiramisu. _She should save that sexy little moan for bedroom sport_ , Draco decides crossly, shuffling slightly on his seat. His earlier jittery mood has returned twofold.

They both refuse coffees; as soon as the bill arrives, Draco rises and holds out the black pea coat for Hermione to don, before guiding her to exit the booth before him. He swiftly pays for their meal and folds two £50 notes into their astonished waitress’s hand, thanking her for her excellent service with his most charming smile. He is quietly amused by the envious look she shoots Hermione as they leave.

The silent walk to Hermione’s flat takes no more than fifteen minutes; they are both striding swiftly as the chilled night air nips at their exposed faces. Draco stands back at the front door as Hermione digs through her ebony leather work satchel for her keys.

Unspoken tension between them is crackling in the air; perhaps that is why Hermione fumbles with sliding the key into the lock.

“Here, let me,” Draco says impatiently, plucking the keys from her palm before sliding his larger hand around Hermione’s waist as he gently nudges her out of the way. He regrets his impulsive action as the gesture presses Hermione flush against his side. He can feel her rib cage hitch as she draws a shaky breath, and the warmth of her hip burns against his upper thigh.

Granger’s scent of rose geranium, vanilla and bergamot wraps around him like a cloak. Draco almost shouts in relief when her bloody door finally unlocks, and Hermione skitters away from him to grasp the handle.

Turning her shoulder, she quickly utters, “Thank you for dinner, Malfoy. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Draco echoes stupidly, his smoky eyes still trained on her flushed face. The door is almost closed when Hermione suddenly swings it open again.

“I almost forgot – your coat!” She begins to wriggle her arms free.

“Keep it – it’s yours now,” Draco says harshly. “I have to leave.” He spares an agitated glance up and down the darkened street before turning on his heel and Disapparating with a low crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any part of the Harry Potter franchise.


	6. Revelation

__

_Thursday 20 February 2003: PM_

For the third time, Hermione glares at her mirrored reflection as she points her wand at her hair and determinedly chants the styling charm that Ginny once tried to teach her. Her glossy brown curls slowly lift off her neck and shoulders, winding together to the top of her head in a gentle coil. Holding her breath, Hermione tugs a soft elastic off her left wrist and quickly twists it around the created bun. She fulminates quietly as her fingers get stuck on the last loop but finally tugs them free and checks the result.

Her face falls. The graceful messy up-do she was hoping for looks more like Miss Trunchbull’s scary bun in _Matilda_. Why oh _why_ does her mad hair have such a mind of its own? Sighing in resignation, Hermione yanks out the hair tie and settles for a loose ponytail.

The silly collywobbles in her stomach tighten as she reminds herself that there is absolutely no need to primp or fuss about her appearance; Malfoy is coming over to try to retrieve her missing memories. Not for a _date_. Hermione sternly reminds herself that they are adults now: Draco is not going to call her a bushy-tailed squirrel. Or a beaver. Or any kind of rodent. He probably couldn’t care less if she answered the door sporting a mohawk.

Grinning at that mental picture, Hermione turns away from the looking glass and kills some time by tidying her lounge room. Not because she wants to impress Malfoy ( _ha! – fat chance_ ), but she possesses enough pride to not want to be thought a slob. Moving a few newspapers to the recycling bin and wiping down the coffee table is easily done; Hermione perches on the wide arm of her cushy overstuffed sofa and wonders whether she should bother donning a pair of shoes. Her thick black-and-grey striped woolly socks are fine, she decides.

Hermione rubs abstractedly at a tiny imperfection on the deep red velvet Chesterfield sofa, her mind returning to the issue that has been plaguing her ever since she bid goodnight to Draco yesterday evening. The libidinous effects of the deplorable potion haven’t worn off: if anything, they’ve intensified. As soon as she’d clashed gazes with Draco as she’d walked toward his booth, undeniable lust had swum through her veins like warmed molasses. It had taken every scrap of her desperate dignity to maintain a façade of serene sangfroid and sit down on the bench (and not Malfoy’s lap). A dire condition made worse by Draco calculatingly running his hot metallic eyes all over her body. Despite being aware he’d only leered to unsettle her - Hermione had felt that heat all the way to her curled toes. Just the memory of his steamy gaze unfurls a tendril of pure craving in her lower abdomen.

Is it possible that the potion has somehow… imprinted her on Draco? Revved up her sexuality to respond uniquely to Malfoy, since he was the first man to touch her (however impersonally) after she’d unknowingly imbibed the filthy philter at the pub? It’s the most logical explanation Hermione can concoct to justify why she wants to climb Malfoy like a Douglas fir. Or – it isn’t the potion at all. It’s just Draco Malfoy, the undeniably sexy Slytherin prince. ‘The Pureblood Pussy-hound’, as she’d once heard Lavender Brown admiringly refer to him at Hogwarts. Vulgar, but perhaps not wholly inaccurate.

Hermione is at a loss to determine which scenario terrifies her more.

Three crisp raps resound at her front door; Hermione vaults off the sofa, smoothing her jittery hands over her bulky dusk pink cable-knit jumper, tweaking it down over her plain dark grey leggings. This is what she usually changes into when she returns from work, she rationalizes again; the only concession she’s made towards Draco’s call is that she chose a pair of pants without any holes in them.

Adopting a pleasantly neutral expression, Hermione opens the door to an unsmiling Draco. He is garbed in snug black jeans and a shawl-collared sapphire blue cardigan with a sea green Henley shirt beneath, a navy scarf loosely wrapped around his strong throat. His argent hair is slightly damp and combed off his face. The only anomaly in Draco’s impeccably casual image is a miniscule fleck of white paint on his left ear lobe. Hermione fixates on the odd dot and greets Malfoy guardedly.

“Hello. Thank you for coming.” Hermione cringes as soon as the stilted words leave her mouth. She’s not hosting a dinner party, for Merlin’s sake. Ten seconds in and she sounds like a right pillock.

“Granger,” Draco frostily responds. His tone and mien are stony, polar, taciturn. But his eyes are blazing with barely banked ire as he fleetingly rakes them across her face. _What the devil have I done to deserve that glower?_ Hermione thinks indignantly. _Moody prat._

“Well, come in then,” Hermione ungraciously bids. She spins testily on her socked heel and makes for the kitchen, uncaring of her ill-mannered action in leaving Draco to deal with the open door.

“Do you want something to drink, Malfoy? I have some dusty red wine in a cupboard somewhere… or there might still be a lager or cider in the bottom of the fridge –“

Her beverage offer is rudely rejected by Draco’s harsh, “No. No alcohol.” He sounds as though he is right behind her; an assumption that proves correct as Hermione turns back around. The broody blond man is less than a foot away, dominating her small kitchen. Hackles up, Hermione resolves to not budge an inch – she refuses to be intimidated in her own residence.

Draco ignores her defiant stance, crowding her smaller frame until his heavy cardigan is brushing her chunky knit pullover. Hormones going haywire, Hermione plays at Grandmother’s Footsteps as Draco reaches around her, his superior reach easily enabling him to open the fridge door and snag a sealed bottle of water. He looks down at her with an unreadable expression for a few fraught moments; Hermione tenses, trying desperately not to bask in his alluring aroma.

“This will do,” Draco gruffly pronounces, withdrawing a few steps before pivoting to saunter in the direction of her lounge. _Of all the bloody nerve_ … Hermione crunches her jaws together forcefully enough to make her back teeth sing. Seething, she stalks after his lofty form.

By the time she reaches the sofa, Draco is standing before her quaint fireplace, arms crossed as he contemplates the small grouping of framed photographs atop the mantelpiece. His gaze is drawn to the one snapshot in the room that he is certain to mock, Hermione realizes glumly.

In the picture, Hermione is about six years old, clinging to her father’s large gentle hand with a beaming grin plastered across her face. It’s Hallowe’en night, and she’s wearing a stereotypical Muggle witch’s costume, complete with a child-sized broom, crooked hat, and a black toy cat stuffed under her free arm. All hair and teeth, Hermione winces. She treasures the photo because of the expression of adoring indulgence on her dad’s face as he looks down at her animated little face. Worlds away from her current strained relationship with her parents, she ponders forlornly.

Hermione braces for Draco to say something scathing about the silly costume or playing at being a witch. Instead, he wordlessly walks to the couch and sinuously drapes his dynamic self onto her preferred corner, placing his folded scarf beside his purloined water bottle on the coffee table.

“Ready, Granger?” Draco is still prickly, but his inexplicable wrath has lessened, Hermione surmises. The antagonism arcing around him when he’d first entered has tapered off to regular Malfoy-esque snark. _Just peachy_. She shelves her irritation and confusion. _Sooner begun, sooner done._

“Ready,” Hermione confirms colourlessly, wedging herself in the opposite corner of the sofa. Draco is hogging up an awful lot of space, she notes resentfully. Impulsively Hermione twists to draw up her legs, folding them into a classic cross-legged pose as she faces Draco. He reacts swiftly, swivelling his left leg and torso so that their knees are almost touching. _Too close!_ But she will lose face if she shifts again.

Draco launches into their task without preamble.

“As I told you last night, your consent and trust is imperative if we are to succeed in accessing your buried memories. I promise that I will not continue if I sense the process is causing you pain in any way,” Malfoy vows.

“Yes, I understand,” Hermione acknowledges.

“Say it. You need to say it,” Draco insists. He hasn’t moved a muscle, yet his presence looms larger somehow. His grey eyes are a tundra storm as they rove across her face.

“I trust you and give my consent to the Legilimency, Malfoy.” Hermione mirrors Draco’s formal tenor. The gravitas of the words leaves her unaccountably vulnerable and anxious. Despite their chequered history, antipodal upbringings, and a thousand other disparities – Hermione is forced to the yield to the truth of her statement. She closes her eyes momentarily to mask the depth of her sensitivity.

When she opens them again, Draco is beetling his fair brows at her.

“We don’t have to do this – if it’s too much –“

“No! No, I’m prepared. I’m OK.” Hermione assures him. She wiggles her back until it is flush against the Chesterfield and puffs out a deep exhale before bobbing her head. “Proceed, please.”

Draco’s voice is much gentler as he instructs, “Close your eyes, Granger. You are safe. You are in control. Focus on last Saturday night. Let the experience flow through you. You are safe…” he repeats in a low murmur.

Hermione shuts her eyes, allowing Draco’s genteel accents to smooth away any last traces of disquiet. Draco’s ingress into her spirit is exquisitely subtle, like comforting fingertips ruffling through the ends of her long hair. Vastly different to Bellatrix Lestrange’s brute pummelling at Malfoy Manor. She senses his guiding touch as she relaxes deeper. Hermione concentrates on last Saturday evening…

_… She’s checking the draping of her burgundy dress. Her best date dress. Feeling quietly hopeful as she nears the entrance of the pub. This guy seems simpatico. Confident, not cocky. An avid reader. Attractive. Intelligent, cultured. Their preliminary exchange of messages had displayed Christopher’s decent knowledge of literature and the arts. Ticking all the boxes… she metaphorically crosses her fingers that he won’t disappoint in the flesh._

_Here goes nothing… Walking through the door, she recognizes him instantly. Sitting at the bar, light brown eyes desultorily scanning the crowded hostelry. Tall, dark, ruggedly handsome. Dressed conservatively but smartly in a dark suit, no tie. He spies her almost immediately and waves her over, full lips breaking into a dazzling smile. She makes her way to the bar, enjoying the way his appreciative gaze lingers on her moving form. He helps her with her coat. A brief kiss on her cheek, a glanced touch on her hip as she settles onto the stool beside him._

_Small talk. What would she like to drink?_ A glass of rosé, please _. He leans a little closer as the barman prepares her wine. Christopher slides it in front of her, hint of a smile as she takes her first sip. Strawberries and oranges, zesty._

 _She places the wineglass back on the bar just as someone bumps roughly into her side. Turns her head. Brief impression of a whiffy, unpleasantly coarse big man…instinctual prickle of something **off**. Hearty boom of insincere apology. _Sorry, luv! Had a few too many, y’know _. Can’t see his face as he lumbers away._

 _Another sip of wine. Wrongness. Bitterness, saltiness coating her tongue. Dizziness. Mustn’t let him see that I know. She forces a smile._ Excuse me, I need the bathroom _. His eyes harden as she carefully picks her way through the throng of chattering clientele. Couldn’t grab coat, too obvious. Vision blurring. Find an exit. There, ahead – the pub kitchen. Tottering through the narrow space, ignoring the bemused staff. Sobbing as she stumbles through the back door._

_Running now. But where? Magic dampened, muzzy, nullified. Can’t Apparate, can’t send her Patronus. Panicking, gasping for breath. Hide. **Hide**. Think. There – a park. Shadows. An English oak tree. Climb. Hole up, wait, think. Climb. _

_Too high. Don’t look down. A hollow. She curls up, shaking. Sounds from below. Shoes slapping violently against the road surface, angry exchange of muffled male voices. Ears straining, too scared to breathe until the noises fade._

_Drifting in and out. Don’t move. Think. **Think**. Where is she? Eyes flying open in the murky night. St John’s Wood… **Draco Malfoy**. The letter. His address… stole it from work, memorized it. Draco Malfoy._

_Agonizingly slow descent down the tree. Stockings torn. Fighting to stay awake. Finally, on solid ground. The address. Down this street? Yes. Laboriously creeping from one nebulous shadow to the next. Muscles turned to mud. Keening in relief as she opens the low gate, drags her sluggish body up the steps. Banging on the door. Oh, please be home. Please help me. Crumpling against the door frame **. Malfoy, please** …_

_Darkness._

Hermione quivers, keeping her eyes squeezed closed as Draco coaxes her back to the familiar reality of her lounge in her beloved little apartment. His cultured tones eddy tranquilly through the room; gradually, his words imbue with meaning as she revives from the Legilimens ordeal.

“Granger, you’re safe. Come back, now. You did so well. Brave, clever, Gryffindor girl. Come back now, Granger.”

“You shouldn’t call me ‘girl’,” Hermione corrects softly as she peers through her eyelashes. “Say ‘woman’ – I’m almost twenty-four.” She hears and _feels_ Draco chuckle, because somehow, she’s cosily mashed into his side, enveloped by her plush red throw rug and Draco’s left arm to anchor it. Hermione actively battles the temptation to lay her head on his strong shoulder. He’s become her flipping catnip.

“You’re feeling better, then,” Draco comments with dry levity, shifting to create a small gap between their bodies. He keeps his arm wrapped loosely around her nape and upper arm as her traitorous body delights in his proximity.

“I thought it best to stop the Legilimency there, for now,” Draco tells her gravely. “You had to revisit a terrifying experience, and I refuse to push you any further tonight.”

Hermione yawns widely, bringing up her hand to cover her mouth as an afterthought.

“You didn’t push me too far, Malfoy. You protected me the whole time… I felt that clearly. Thank you.”

And she _had_ known that he was guarding her from psychological harm; when Hermione had relived the blinding panic of her helter-skelter escape from the pub, Draco had immediately woven an insulating safeguard around the memory. A skilled buffer that allowed her to see it without fully feeling it again. _You’re not alone_ , he’d whispered into her mind. Something profound and personal inside her vibrates melodiously at his benevolence.

Draco ignores her thanks and grabs the water bottle on the table, twisting the cap to break the seal before he hands it to Hermione.

“Drink this – you’re more drained from this experience than you realize,” he commands authoritatively.

Hermione rolls her eyes as she complies. _Ever the autocrat_. It doesn’t truly bother her though; it’s a pleasant change from being the renowned bossyboots in any given situation.

“Do you have any chocolate?” asks Draco, already raising his lissome body from the sofa and heading for her kitchen. Without preamble, he begins rifling through her small pantry as though he owns the place. _Cheeky sod._

“There are some Kit Kats on the top shelf,” Hermione calls. His rummaging halts.

“I don’t know what that is,” Draco admits. “Is it shaped like a cat?”.

Stifling a giggle, Hermione enlightens him.

“That’s just the brand name – they’re rectangular wafers dipped in milk chocolate. Bring two bars please, you must try one. Red and white foil packaging.”

Returning to the lounge, Draco sits back on the far corner of the sofa and hands Hermione a Kit Kat. He lets his own chocolate treat dangle from his deft fingers. Hermione demonstrates how to peel open the thin wrapper and delicately snap each column away from its mate. She munches contentedly at the first quadrant as Malfoy copies her actions. He gives a short hum of approval after his first bite, strong white teeth crunching into the delicious snack. He’s unbuttoned his cardigan at some point, allowing Hermione to slyly appreciate the contours of his broad chest beneath his form-fitting green shirt.

The chocolate hit has indeed perked her up, Hermione concedes. _Dementor attacks, Legilimency recovery trauma, period pain… chocolate really is a superpower._

Her whimsical musings are interrupted as Draco asserts flatly, “In the pub: they were two wizards. Working in tandem. ‘Christopher Atkinson’ to lure you there, then Lowlife Number Two to jostle you so Atkinson could pour the potion in your wine.” Malfoy morphs from indolent to formidable without moving a single coiled muscle: his wrath is a palpable, smouldering aura.

The Kit Kat now roils uneasily in Hermione’s stomach as she is reminded of the gravity of her predicament. She gulps down a steadying breath.

“I know. But who _are_ they?” she cries. Frustration, fury and fatigue raggedly underline her plea. Draco won’t meet her harrowed eyes; Hermione instantly smells a rat.

“Malfoy. Tell me. Please,” she tacks on the last word begrudgingly.

“Lowlife Number Two – his voice was familiar. I can’t place it yet… but I _know_ that I know him. Maybe both men. I can’t identify them though,” Draco growls in bitter vexation. “I think they used Polyjuice Potion so you wouldn’t recognize them. But I will remember – and I’ll tear those swine to pieces with my bare hands.”

The hands in question are spasmodically clenching as Draco leaps from the Chesterfield, pacing frenetically in front of Hermione. Even his ferocious ire is a thing of beauty, Hermione thinks wonderingly. Draco Malfoy is a powerful wizard whose erudite persona masks a tremendous reservoir of dangerous talents; she is immensely grateful that he is currently working with her and not against her. Hermione unconsciously wets her lips with her tongue, her cinnamon eyes drinking in Draco’s comely, fit body prowling restlessly in the small room.

Without warning, Draco whips to face her again. He kneels fluidly to sit on his haunches, a scant foot away. His unblinking gaze captures hers easily.

“There’s something else I need to divulge,” he speaks in a low, mesmerizing tone that sends a quake of premonition racing up Hermione’s spine. “I saw something else. In your mind.”

The suspenseful pause that follows just about ends her.

“For God’s sake, Malfoy – spit it out!” Hermione cracks under the strain.

“You need to understand, I didn’t go looking for it. Memory is a complex entity, layered and constructed out of experience, thoughts, feelings. Motivations and… desires.” His voice lowers to a near-whisper on the last word; Hermione has an awful inkling of where this is headed. She shoves her hand out from beneath her throw rug in a fruitless attempt to stop him verbalizing the rest.

Too late. “You are looking for a lover,” Draco continues in a soft, sensual rumble. “You feel… unfulfilled. Curious. Adventurous.” _Oh, kill me now and kill me quickly_ , Hermione silently beseeches an unknown deity. But she cannot look away from his intense pewter eyes, even as she internally writhes with agonized embarrassment.

“That’s why you’ve been dating these Muggle men,” Draco is relentless. “You want to explore your sexuality in a safe, private environment. The wizarding world is too small for any potential carnal exploits to go unnoticed on your part; your fame precludes it. They put the Golden Girl in a gilded cage, but she doesn’t have the freedom to fly.”

Draco’s caressing intonation unexpectedly hardens. “But it’s not safe, Granger. You must see that now.”

His overbearing condescension finally breaks the sensuous stupor Hermione was helplessly wallowing in: she bounds to her feet in a furious burst of energy, the forgotten red throw rug pooling at her feet. Draco rises warily as the limited air between them starts to pulsate with her irradiant, livid magic.

“Don’t you dare – don’t you DARE lecture me on my choices, Malfoy,” Hermione bites off each word with blazing precision, determined to not scream like a banshee and lose what precious control she has left.

“You have no right to go poking around in my head and then have the _absolute chuffing gall_ to taunt me about my private life and blame me for being the victim of a couple of unscrupulous sexual predators!”. The photographs and knickknacks on her mantelpiece and shelves are starting to jitter as tiny sparks shoot from Hermione’s fingertips. And perhaps the last few words were said in a higher than normal volume – but she is _not_ shouting.

“Stop this, Granger – you misunderstand, that wasn’t my intention, not in the slightest –“ Draco attempts a rebuttal.

“Well what was your intention, Malfoy? If you aimed to mortify and censure me – congratulations. You win.” Hermione is hopping mad (literally), bouncing on her toes in a futile attempt to gain a height advantage as Draco towers over her, closer now.

The haughty blond’s prized composure spectacularly splinters as he snarls, “You want to know my intention? Truly? Brace yourself, Granger. I’m offering to be your lover. Did you hear me? Skip all this dating tosh and take me as your bedmate.” Draco’s eyes are burning with uncensored emotion as he crosses his arms across his chest.

“Well?” and he imperiously taps his boot on the carpet.

Hermione experiences a brief flare of joy, followed swiftly by disbelief and enhanced furor. _What, is this pity? Some twisted concept of making amends – throw the sad, desperate, horny witch a few shags to somehow assuage his blighted conscience?_

“Fuck you, Malfoy!” _Ok, this is yelling_.

“I’m not your personal pity project! My sex life is none of your business – and for the record, it’s awesome!” Hermione spares a fleeting thought for her poor neighbours… hopefully they have their TVs turned up high.

Draco laughs caustically. “Come on, Granger – you don’t seriously expect me to believe that the Weasel ever left you satisfied? He’s as lazy as the day is long.”

“Leave Ron out of this! Our sex life was perfectly adequate!” Hermione screeches. Her face is on fire and her hair is frizzing out like a science fair plasma globe from her shimmering spillover magic.

“’ _Perfectly adequate’_?” Malfoy mocks, rounding out each vowel for extra scorn. “I’d hand my cock back to the Department of Dicks if my ex-lovers ever described me that way! You’ve been excusing Weasley’s piss-poor performance in almost every aspect of his life since we were kids. And what’s worse, you’ve been complicit in allowing his insecurity to dull your shine. He’s belittled you to embiggen his own deficient ego for years, for fuck’s sake.”

Every word strikes Hermione like a slap. But Draco rolls on inexorably.

“And before you obsess over the stupid idea that I offered to be your lover as a weird charity project – I’m far too selfish for that. For whatever mental reason, we have chemistry. Magnetism. Fascination. Call it what you will, but it’s right here –“ he waves his graceful hands around the room, highlighting the inanimate dancing objects and swirls of tiny fireworks – “and it’s powerful.”

Leaning in once more, Draco delivers his final jab. “Haven’t you ever wondered what we’d be like, Granger? All those years of mutual antipathy… flipped? Shame you’re too cowardly to find out.”

“ **GET OUT**.” Hermione practically shoulder-charges Draco in her haste to dramatically fling open her front door. Draco infuriates her further as he shrugs dispassionately, deliberately taking his own sweet time re-buttoning his blue cardigan and smoothing his champagne locks back into place. He swaggers cavalierly through the door jamb. Only his luminous dark silver eyes betray his agitation.

The only warning Hermione receives is Draco’s muttered, “Fuck it,” before he cages her against the wall, and he falls on her like a leopard on a gazelle. His hands bracket her head, as his lush lips plunder her soft pink mouth, his tongue gently licking at the corners, before pressing firmer, his cool tongue twining hungrily with hers. He tastes like peppermint and sin, and it takes no more than a millisecond before Hermione is ravishing him back.

She is ablaze with lust for him, growling as she clamps her small hands on Draco’s narrow hips, yanking him to lie flush against her front, wedging his right thigh between her legs and groaning shamelessly at the delicious friction against her sex. Draco responds in kind, biting tiny kisses from her mouth to her jaw, following the delicate line down her throat and sucking hard at a special spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Hermione moans in delirium, gripping Draco’s silky hair in both hands as he laves her sensitive throat with his clever tongue.

Draco returns his attention to her mouth, kissing her deeply as she swipes her hands from the nape of his strong neck to his chest, scrabbling at those damned buttons. Hermione manages to slip a hand underneath Draco’s cardigan and runs it feverishly across his tight pectorals, feeling him tremble at her light touch. He is hard as iron against her stomach, thrusting in infinitesimal jerks even as she bears down on his strong thigh. Draco savages her neck again, rumbling a low purr as he marks the delicate skin across her collarbones.

Hermione’s head thunks back hard; but she doesn’t feel a thing beyond the utter conflagration fanned by Draco’s touch and taste and smell. The heavy layers of knitwear between their bodies can’t disguise the heat radiating off them. Hermione’s breasts are painfully nudging at her bra as her nipples beg for attention. It’s only then that she realizes Draco’s hands haven’t moved from the wall since this feral embrace began.

As if he can hear her confused thought, Draco lifts his mouth from her skin and looks at her with an intense, unreadable expression on his stunning face… before he disengages completely from their twined clinch, straightening to adopt his familiar cocky posture. Gently but resolutely, Draco guides Hermione back inside her flat. He bestows one last hard kiss on her swollen lips and walks away, down the street. She watches him dumbly until he is out of sight. He doesn’t turn around once.

Her mind is awhirl with sensation, revelation and emotional reaction; but below all that hot mess, one idiotic random thought keeps running through Hermione’s brain: _Draco used the words belittled and embiggen in the same sentence._

_Huh._


	7. Obligation

__

_Friday 21 February 2003: PM_

The chill gloom of a winter evening shrouds Malfoy Manor as Draco Apparates to just inside the sinister enspelled-iron gates, abrasive gravel crunching beneath his well-shod feet. The elongated driveway cleaves a sharp demarcation between the high-walled formal gardens; familiar conflicting sentiments of yearning and repulsion threaten to disarrange Draco’s veneer of equanimity. He takes a moment to absorb the Gothic majesty of his familial home, striving to lock his Occlumency shields securely in place.

The murk of the gloaming veils the high symmetrical turrets of the Manor, diluting its foreboding character and lending it an almost fanciful air. On a logical level, Draco knows that he ascribes the building a sentient menace that is probably undeserved; but the events of his turbulent sixteenth year have forever altered his feelings about his childhood home.

Hence his established routine to Apparate to the gate line, rather than Floo: he needs the extra time to fortify his emotions and don his mask of aloof indomitability before his weekly Friday dinner with his mother. Narcissa’s coping strategy of pretending normality is seemingly ingrained in her personality and behaviour, and Draco tries to avoid upsetting her fragile equilibrium.

Fair-haired head held high, Draco marches purposefully down the drive. Best to take a leaf from his mother’s playbook and fake it until he makes it. Even if he simply wants to make it through dinner as inoffensively as possible.

There is no need to knock to demand entry, of course; the estate has centuries-old magic imbued within its stony walls to recognize his blood and cede his rightful presence here. Draco quietly lets himself into the grand entrance hall and starts for the relatively new formal dining room (the previous incarnation was gutted and remodelled into another library). He is halfway there when a little voice pipes from behind him.

“Good evening, Master Malfoy. Lady Malfoy sends Macdolas to tell the young master that she will join you in the dining room shortly. Lady Malfoy is gladdened by your presence - as is Macdolas, of course, sir,” the little house elf chirps.

Draco turns to note that Macdolas is impeccably attired in a miniature tuxedo – Victorian-inspired, he guesses. Complete with swallowtail jacket, bow tie and vertical satin pantleg stripes. The small-statured sprite is fascinated by historic Muggle domestics’ costumes, thanks to Draco gifting him an obscure reference book on the subject when Macdolas was promoted into his current cherished position some years ago.

Given the little creature’s overt pride in his faultlessly tailored garb, Draco doesn’t have the heart to tell Macdolas of the extreme unlikelihood that a true Victorian butler would ever have chosen – much less been allowed – to wear that alarmingly iridescent tint of absinthe green. He tucks in the corners of his mouth, lest he offend Macdolas with his encroaching smile.

“Thank you, Macdolas. And please, call me Draco,” he gently reminds for the hundredth time.

“Yes, Master Malfoy. Very good,” Macdolas intones without a trace of irony. _Well, I tried_ , Draco sighs to himself. Nodding, he continues to the dining parlour.

Although still in keeping with the Gothic architecture and décor of the rest of the Manor, the room is much lighter in colour and ambience than its predecessor. Narcissa decided upon a cream and gold colour scheme with black accents of furnishings and fitments. His mother’s impeccable taste has worked wonders here, Draco acknowledges as he stands behind his customary seat at one end of the lovingly buffed dark oak wood table. Ruibby (Macdolas's household counterpart and long-unrequited love interest) would be terribly affronted should the slightest smear dare blemish the polished surface.

To pass the time before his mother’s arrival, Draco lets his mind wander to the mild comitragedy of Macdolas and Ruibby. They were both hired after the War, along with half a dozen other freed house elves; only a few original Malfoy servants remain at the Manor, having refused to accept the generous pensions Draco had arranged. Their roles are now primarily honorary, of course – but Draco has yet to know a house elf who doesn’t prefer to keep busy.

His shadow of a smile deepens as he recalls the moment Macdolas clapped his oversized eyes on Ruibby and the goofy pandemonium that had soon ensued. One look at the new housekeeper and Macdolas had fallen head-over-heels. Literally, as he’d been in such haste to declare his newfound affections that he’d missed a step in his reckless descent of the central staircase and bounced like a rubber snitch to sprawl at Ruibby’s tiny feet.

Sadly, Macdolas’s bumbling over-fervent proclamations of undying love and improvised odes to Ruibby’s unique beauty (Draco winces at the memory of the phrase, ‘ears like broken bat wings’) had fallen on stony ground. Ruibby had merely sniffed and sharply prodded the prostrate elf with the pointy toe of her shoe before telling him in no uncertain terms that his sentiments were unprofessional, unwelcome and unreciprocated. She’d spun on her dainty heel and ignored him ever since. Or _attempted_ to disregard his ardent regard, since Macdolas was indefatigable in stubborn hope and dogged pursuit.

 _Poor besotted bastard_. Draco briefly toys with the idea of giving Macdolas some pithy advice on playing it cool… then recalls his disastrous attempt to seduce Hermione last night. Gripping the high back of the ornate dining chair before him, he scowls in self-disgust. Beyond unequivocally proving that the explosive sexual chemistry between them is off the charts – _no, out of this world_ , he amends – Draco is sullenly cognizant that he has clumsily managed to insult and alienate Hermione in one fell swoop. Just like our old school days, he mocks bitterly. _Merlin’s balls, I’m a gormless berk_.

“Draco darling, why are you brooding fiercely and trying to squeeze a French antique into splinters with your bare hands?” Narcissa’s cultured voice is dryly blithe with an undercurrent of real concern, as she glides into the room.

Relinquishing his death grip on the defenceless wood, Draco moves to brush a light peck on her cheek.

“Hello, Mother,” he murmurs. As is her custom at these strained suppers, the Malfoy matriarch is wearing deep purple formal dress robes fit for an audience with royalty. The observation grieves him: it reflects her current status as a social pariah and relative exile, for where else does she have the chance to wear her finery these days? Her infamous husband is sentenced to house arrest and stripped indefinitely of his wand; her living sister remains estranged, perhaps irrevocably; and her high society friends choose to vilify her or abandon her to a lonely existence on the edge of Wiltshire without a second thought.

“Have you been out this week, Mother?” Draco couches the query as mildly as he is able as he escorts Narcissa to her chair at the other end of the table. He has remarked before on the ridiculousness of sitting ends apart at a dining table for six but has yet been unsuccessful in swaying the traditional seating arrangements. He suspects that fussing over the trivial gives his mother a small sense of control otherwise lacking in her life.

Narcissa scrutinizes Draco keenly, ignoring his question to return to her own.

“What has you in such a brown study, Draco? You look as though you’ve lost a Galleon and found a Knut.”

“Doesn’t that proverb usually apply the other way round?” Draco cavils. For a single crackbrained instant, he considers confessing why he’s feeling churlish and grouchy. _I’m wildly lusting after the world’s most famous and revered Muggleborn witch after she crashed into my humdrum existence like a meteor a week ago. I’ve managed to grievously offend and estrange her with an offer of sexual congress after I used Legilimency to inadvertently discover her concupiscence. But the week’s not over yet – she’s considerably likely to hunt me down to transform my testicles to acorns, and who could blame her?_

Perhaps best to keep those cards close to his chest. Forever. Draco settles for a partial truth.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” He’d given up on the idea of slumber entirely not long after his return from Granger’s flat. Lying in his darkened bedroom with a tenacious hard-on as he’d relived every second of his stolen tryst with Hermione was not conducive to restful slumber. Her plush, hungry mouth matching him kiss for kiss… the fine velvet of her skin as he’d nipped rapaciously down her jaw and throat… the feral way he’d deliberately sucked love bites into her delicate neck like a possessive barbarian… the febrile heat of her crotch enthusiastically rubbing on his quadriceps as Hermione had borne down vigorously on his jean-clad thigh…

With a small jolt, Draco belatedly realizes that Narcissa has been repeating his name without response. Her patrician features bear the faintest hint of displeasure, her eyes narrowed calculatingly. Draco senses her signature light touch as his mother tries to sneak a look past his Occlumency barriers. He chuckles lightly, downing a sip from his water glass as he steadies himself, concentrating on purposefully wiping all haunting traces of Hermione Granger from his conscious mind. 

“Come now, Mother – that’s discourteous, not to mention unsubtle and intrusive,” Draco rebukes without any real heat behind his admonition. “I told you – my sleep was fractious, and my disposition is paying the price.”

Narcissa purses her flawlessly painted lips and twice taps her manicured nails against the fine linen of the damask tablecloth; Draco recognizes this gesture of old. It means his mother’s canny mind is busily analyzing and strategizing, preparing her next chess move. He stifles a groan, knowing she will pick at him inexorably - like a Thestral foal at a fresh carcass - until her curiosity is satisfied.

“You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” _Here we go_. Draco hopes his face hasn’t blanched at Narcissa’s perception. She is smiling gently as she gazes down the table. Ruibby and Macdolas have entered the room to begin serving the first course; they are doing a poor job of disguising their interest in the edgy familial repartee.

“A witch,” Narcissa clarifies unnecessarily, precisely settling her napkin in her lap as Macdolas offers the soup tureen. The rich flavour of the consommé wafts temptingly around the room.

“I’ve met many witches, Mother,” Draco temporizes. He nods his thanks to Macdolas as he ladles the clear broth into his bowl. He applies himself to the soup as Narcissa prods again.

“Draco – I only wish for you to be happy. To know the joy and contentment of sharing your life with one special person,” Narcissa wistfully tells him.

“Like you, do you mean?” The sharply unkind comment has left his mouth before he can censor it. His mother flinches as Ruibby lets out a shocked gasp. The little elf glares reproachfully at Draco, who hastens to apologize.

“Forgive me, Mother - that was cruel. I’m sorry,” Draco is thoroughly ashamed of his nasty outburst. “I know how difficult Lucius’s… situation… is for you.” His mouth twists as he utters the euphemism.

His thoughtless words have found their target; although Narcissa maintains her dignified posture and poise, she looks smaller, tired, defeated. Draco proffers a tiny olive branch.

“How is Fa- Lucius this week?’ he quietly inquires, pushing aside his unfinished consommé.

“He’s not slept well, either,” Narcissa admits. “You know that he refuses almost all the Healer’s potions; I believe he is still punishing himself… after what happened –“

“Yes, I realize that,” Draco bluntly cuts in. The atmosphere is heavy with old hurts and bitter conflicts. “He’s being stubborn and foolish.”

“And you aren’t?” Narcissa fires back. “Draco, if you’d only consider spending time with him again, talking with him… he misses you desperately…” her voice trails away as she looks pleadingly at her son. Her limpid blue eyes betray the sheen of unwept tears. Draco buttresses his long-held resolve to remain unmanipulated.

“Must we do this at every dinner, Mother?”. He is suddenly exhausted by the unvarying drama of his weekly visit. “I’ve made my feelings on the subject crystal clear – and you agreed to my terms when we reconnected last year,” Draco reminds Narcissa.

He is unprepared for her restrained fury.

“You gave me no choice, Draco! Given the option of never seeing my son, or seeing my son only without the presence of my husband – did you expect me to refuse altogether? You have not been fair to either of us,” Narcissa adds, before slumping back into her chair to rub at her smooth white brow.

Draco scratches uncomfortably at the high collar of his black turtleneck. His neck is burning, and he fights the impulse to simply bolt from the table and never return. For she is correct: under the guise of playing the victim, he has been selfish and uncompromising. Immature. Inequitable and motivated by spite. Draco fully comprehends the chasm his absence has left in his father’s life – and he takes sour satisfaction in it. He is naught but a petty charlatan.

Narcissa fills the silence with a few more soft words.

“Won’t you ever forgive us for our sins, Draco? We know we have failed you as parents; it is our deepest regret. But we cannot change the past. I would… I would give anything to have a cohesive family again.” A lone tear tracks slowly down Narcissa’s left cheek; she lets it drop unchecked to the fine tablecloth.

 _Fucking stellar. I’ve made my mother cry._ Draco rises jerkily from his chair just as Macdolas and Ruibby re-enter the room with the main course. The diminutive butler places the gleaming silver cloche on the table with a practised flourish. Ruibby settles her own smaller cloches beside it as she rolls her expressive eyes at Macdolas’s exaggerated showmanship, elbowing him to pick up the serving spoon.

Draco subsides back into his seat as Macdolas begins serving the beef bourguignon with sides of creamy mashed potatoes and steamed green beans. Narcissa has resumed her role of effervescent hostess, murmuring appreciatively as the tempting meal is placed before them.

“Thank you Ruibby, Macdolas – you have outdone yourselves,” she praises approvingly. The pair bow solemnly, basking in Lady Malfoy’s endorsement. They retreat after Narcissa waves an elegant hand in gentle dismissal.

Taking the unspoken cue from his mother, Draco quietly starts eating the tasty stew on his plate. A minute elapses before Narcissa addresses him again.

“What’s her name, Draco?” and the conversational tone of her clever voice almost lulls him into unthinkingly revealing Hermione’s identity. He clamps his traitorous lips in an uncompromising line and feigns confusion.

“Whose name, Mother?” He widens his eyes in mock innocence, blinking slowly. Narcissa concedes, her musical laugh chiming in genuine amusement. Draco joins in, relief colouring his laughter.

“You can’t hide her from me for long – I _am_ a Seer, you know,” Narcissa teases him.

“Partial Seer, at best,” Draco smiles as he corrects her. “Besides, there’s nothing to tell. Your unremitting push for grandchildren has you ‘Seeing’ potential mates everywhere,” he scolds lightly.

Narcissa shrugs gracefully. “As I said before, Draco – I do wish you happiness. In all that you do.” Her cerulean eyes settle on him with affection and sadness. Draco stares at her, wondering at his mother’s reaction if he did confess to briefly being involved in a strange, lust-saturated, not-relationship with Hermione Granger. He knows that she is no longer an avowed blood purity supremacist; but her legendary reserve usually doesn’t afford him much insight into her true feelings.

“Thank you, Mother,” Draco finally acknowledges. “As I wish the same for you.”

They make it through the rest of the supper without incident; Draco hurries through dessert, feeling a stress-induced headache building behind his temples. Ruibby shoots him a decidedly dirty look for daring to leave half his cherry clafoutis uneaten, but prudently keeps her prim mouth closed.

Narcissa sees Draco out, chattering inconsequentially about minor maintenance issues and gossip gleaned from the Daily Prophet’s society pages, with Draco adding a “mmm” or “ah” at the appropriate pauses.

Giving his mother an awkward half-hug in farewell, Draco turns to pass through the front door; spontaneously, he turns back to Narcissa and diffidently announces, “Mother… perhaps Lucius could join us for dinner next week. If he’s feeling up to it,” he tacks on guardedly.

Narcissa grips Draco’s hand, tears dotting her stunning eyes once more.

“Thank you, darling,” she whispers, her throat constricted with pent-up sentiment. Draco swallows convulsively, warring emotions tightening his own gullet.

They stand like this for a few beats, before Narcissa releases his hand with a gentle pat.

“Goodbye, Draco. You’re welcome to bring your witch with you next Friday,” she banters with a tiny grin.

_Yeah… No._

“Goodnight, Mother. See you in a week.” Draco closes the imposing door behind him and begins his reverse journey down the long pebbled drive.


	8. Contretemps

__

_Friday 21 February 2003: PM_

The heavy insulated carrier bags looped over both her arms threaten to topple from Hermione’s tenuous hold as she Apparates to 12 Grimmauld Place; the uneven weight of the Indian takeaway she’s brought for dinner causing her to stumble a little on the top step outside the front door.

 _Plus, wearing these foolishly high heeled boots doesn’t help my balance at all_. She doesn’t usually wear them to work for that very reason, but minor recklessness was apparently the theme of her day. No, the motif of her week, she revises. Her heart thumps in an annoyingly familiar accelerated rhythm as she reminisces about her brief salacious tryst with Draco last night ( _possibly for the thousandth time today, but who’s counting?_ ).

 _This is all Malfoy’s fault_ , she decides peevishly. He’d riled her up to a state of delirious, mindless lust only to strut away without a bloody word. Leaving her hot and aching and mad as a wet hen. His wicked tongue had stripped away all her careful pretensions of civilization and rationality in a matter of seconds, reducing her to a primitive hormonal creature.

Draco is unquestionably to blame for the fact she’d taken an age to fall asleep: only to wake sweaty, disoriented and unsatisfied after a disturbingly realistic montage of explicitly raunchy dreams about him. _And_ he’s indirectly culpable for her decision to don her knee-high brown leather boots for work, because they always make her feel sexy… and he made her feel like the most desirable witch in the world yesterday evening.

Ergo: if she trips on the damned heels and breaks her neck – Draco should be held accountable for that, too. Hermione ignores the hectoring voice of her conscience reminding her about free will and taking responsibility for her own choices. _Pfft_.

Carefully reaching for the handle, she shrieks as the door seemingly opens of its own accord. Her jumpy nerves subside as she looks down at Kreacher, holding it open for her.

“Kreacher will help Mistress Granger bring the foreign victuals inside,” he announces with a disapproving sniff, reaching out his gnarled hands for the bags. Hermione reluctantly relinquishes them to Harry’s ancient house elf. It bothers her to see Kreacher struggling under the weight of the food, but Hermione knows that refusing to allow Kreacher to carry her bags would assuredly antagonize and insult him. She suspects that he is suffering from untreated arthritis, but he has refused all her tentative overtures to bring a Healer to him. Probably terrified he’ll be declared unfit to serve and sent away, Hermione deduces sadly.

Kreacher also takes affront at takeaway meals being introduced into Harry’s residence – the unintentional implication being that Kreacher’s own cooking abilities are not up to scratch. Which is why Hermione chooses ‘exotic’ dishes that aren’t part of Kreacher’s cooking repertoire. Sighing at his intractability, Hermione hangs her new pea coat on a hook in the hallway before following the crotchety elf as he makes his laboured way to the dining room.

The interior of Grimmauld Place is manifestly different from its incorporation as the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix; it is still a little shabby, but is now scrupulously clean and neat, with fresh wallpaper and re-upholstered sofas and chairs. Most of the dubious Black family’s Dark keepsakes have been removed or rendered harmless by curse-breakers, excepting Walburga Black’s odious, noisy portrait. The Permanent Sticking Charm affixed to the horrid woman’s likeness had proved impossible to remove, so Harry had slapped a set of metal Muggle shutters across it and screwed it shut. Crude, but effective in muffling the evil witch’s foul bigoted diatribes.

With a tiny pained grunt, Kreacher hoists the two bags of food onto the end of the long wooden dining table. He liberates the pistachio and mango ice-creams from the cold bag to temporarily store in the freezer.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione smiles kindly. “I’m much obliged for your assistance.”

“Mistress Granger is welcome,” Kreacher mumbles, not meeting her eyes as he slips away to the kitchen to retrieve serving utensils.

It is only after his departure that Hermione notices the table is set for three. Kreacher has steadfastly refused to join them at mealtimes – has Harry invited Ginny to join them after all?

A clatter of heavy feet rapidly descending the staircase answers Hermione’s unspoken query. Her stomach sinks as a familiar deep voice bellows behind her.

“Ooh, Indian! Bloody ripper. Hullo, ‘Mione,” says Ronald Weasley, casually laying his hands on her slim hips as he busses a rough kiss on the crown of her head, before nudging her aside to rummage through the stacked takeaway containers.

“Chicken tikka – alright, I like that – lamb Rogan Josh, excellent – got plenty of coconut rice, lovely… Dunno what this green stuff is, you and Harry can have that. Hope that’s garlic naan in the foil?”. Turning around, Ron fails to take any cues from Hermione’s bristling silence.

“Did you make sure the pork vindaloo is extra hot, ‘Mione? You know I love that spicy kick,” Ron grins guilelessly.

 _I hope it’s hot enough to burn your ring out_. The spiteful thought flits briefly through Hermione’s upset mind.

Ignoring Ron’s enthusiastic food narrative, Hermione asks tonelessly, “What are you doing here, Ron?”. She registers another masculine tread on the stairs; Harry’s apologetic face comes into her field of view. He lays a steadying hand on her tense forearm.

“Thought I’d drop in on Harry after our Quidditch pick-up match finished early,” Ron divulges. “You two don’t mind, do you?”. He doesn’t wait for a reply as Kreacher re-enters the dining room to lay various polished silver ladles and tongs on the table.

“Thanks, Kreach!” Ron misses the pinched look of disfavour Kreacher darts his way at the unsanctioned nickname.

 _I hear ya, buddy_ , Hermione empathizes. Speaking of which…

“Ron. Don’t call him that, please,” Hermione tries to keep the sting out of her request. “And please refrain from calling me ‘Mione’; I’ve asked you to desist on numerous occasions.” _Stay calm_ , she coaches her flaring temper. _Don’t let him push your buttons tonight_.

“But ‘Mione is cute, sweetheart,” Ron is oblivious to her rising tension. Hermione exhales slowly through her flared nostrils. _Oh, for the love of lions…_

Harry attempts to defuse the unpinned grenade spinning in front of him.

“C’mon mate – you know Hermione doesn’t like it. Neither does Kreacher,” Harry mildly cautions the redhead. To little avail.

Ron shrugs. “Sorry,” he offers blithely, dismissing the conversation in favour of helping himself to generous servings of everything on offer – bar the palak paneer, Hermione discerns. Aka the ‘green stuff’.

She’d deliberately over-catered for their supper, knowing that Harry enjoys eating any leftovers as quick luncheons; his job is demanding, and he often misses meals as a result of being time poor. But it seems that the unexpected presence of a freckled humanoid termite is putting an end to that.

Harry’s soothing hand moves from her arm to her shoulder, rubbing small circles against her knotted muscles.

“Sorry, I didn’t know he was coming over,” Harry murmurs conciliatorily.

Hermione digs her left index finger into the furrow forming between her dark brows.

“It’s fine, Harry. Let’s enjoy the food before it gets cold.” She offers her old friend a stoical smile.

 _We should be able to get through one informal supper without a huge fight_ , she reassures herself. They’re still good friends.

They work harmoniously to dish out a hearty selection from the delicious Indian menu; Hermione yanks the tray of samosas out of Ron’s hands, but she holds back from rebuking him for his greed. Eating her food slowly, she casts a dispassionate eye over Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Ron is a good-looking man – tall, fit, broad-shouldered, in the prime of young male adulthood. Clear aquamarine eyes, glossy copper-red hair, strong jawline and full lips, combined with an easygoing cheerfulness and roguish charm. Possessed of a droll sense of humour and refreshing forthrightness. Fiercely loyal to his nearest and dearest. Brave. Bright, despite his regular unmindfulness of others’ emotions. Her close friend of almost a dozen years; her boyfriend for four of them, and lover for three.

Hermione’s cranky heart softens as she remembers all the positive aspects of their often-tumultuous relationship. Ron is a lot of fun and she cares for him deeply… but he doesn’t give her what she needs, she pensively concludes. No matter how much she’d tried to make their differing personalities complement each other – it always meant that one of them was sacrificing too much in the compromise.

Draco’s barbed criticisms crawl unpleasantly into her head.

_‘You’ve been excusing Weasley’s piss-poor performance in almost every aspect of his life since we were kids. And what’s worse, you’ve been complicit in allowing his insecurity to dull your shine.’_

Is Malfoy correct? Hermione fidgets anxiously in her chair. Acrid memories shuffle past like ghostly playing cards. Ron’s consistent denigration of her swottish tendencies and trust in authority figures. His vehement scorn whenever she tried to shut down their more outrageous and dangerous madcap ‘adventures’.

Taking her burgeoning affections for granted; his insensitivity in flaunting his over-the-top relationship with Lavender Brown. His arrogant belief that Hermione would always be waiting in the wings as his back-up plan and his jealous fury when she accepted Viktor Krum’s invitation to the Yule Ball.

Expecting her to help or simply complete his homework. His laziness in consistently forgetting Hermione’s birthday and their anniversaries. His entitled reliance on his mother to do his laundry and clean his room at The Burrow.

 _Calling me perverted for wanting to try new things in the bedroom_. Hermione pushes away her plate, her stomach curdling at the poisonous recollection of their final, cataclysmic argument. It had taken appreciable courage for her to ask Ron about trying some new sexual positions and techniques. Despite her unswerving confidence in her academic and professional achievements, Hermione had felt… substandard… regarding her sexuality and ability to ask for what she wanted and needed in her sex life.

Witnessing her teenaged school mates merrily exploring their shiny new passions while she forlornly sat on the sidelines had contributed to her shyness and sense of inadequacy. She’d made the decision to hold off on the physical side of her relationship with Ron after the Battle of Hogwarts, choosing to focus on getting her accelerated NEWTs and then a fast-tracked legal education to enable her to begin working at the Ministry.

When Hermione had felt ready to have sex, she’d probably built it up excessively in her mind. Over-exposure to romantic movies, literature, music and advertising combined to leave her expecting fireworks and earthquakes and multiple shattering orgasms, Hermione meditates ruefully.

The disappointing reality of her first time engaging in sexual intercourse with Ron had been fumbled foreplay, awkwardly aligned limbs and mouths, an unfamiliar feeling of smarting intrusion, a few minutes of uncoordinated rutting, and the denouement of Ron shouting unintelligibly then collapsing heavily atop her. Hermione had just managed to push him to the side before he’d muttered his love and thanks and fallen asleep.

 _Leaving me achingly aroused, unsatisfied and reliant on my right hand to finish myself off_. Thus, beginning a pattern that rarely deviated over the next three years. Hoping every time that Ron would sense that she needed more: more time, more touches, more words, more variation and experimentation and kisses and roleplay and whatever the hell else she wanted to try but was too lily-livered to communicate. Becoming an expert at silent, virtually motionless onanism while lying next to her snoring boyfriend in the dark.

 _Unacceptably pathetic_ , Hermione denounces. And she has been spineless and unfair for assigning blame only to Ron. Being slack in the sack cuts both ways.

The object of her narrowed contemplation looks up from devouring the last of the pork vindaloo, mopping up most of the remaining reddish juices with a torn swatch of naan bread.

“Why are you glaring at me like that, _Her-mi-o-ne_?” Ron emphasizes each syllable with puerile facetiousness.

Determined to avoid falling into their old dysfunctional habits, Hermione abstains from rolling her eyes at him. Kreacher enters the room bearing the dessert tray and does it for her.

The elderly house elf whips away Ron’s half-sopped plate and thrusts a bowl containing green and orange ice-cream scoops in front of him with ill-disguised disgust.

“Mister Weasley is ready for dessert.” Kreacher doesn’t wait for a response as he dispenses two more bowls and gathers their used crockery and cutlery. He spares a last contemptuous look at Ron’s unused table napkin before departing for the kitchen.

Hermione squelches a smile – Kreacher’s fastidious insistence on referring to Ron as ‘Mister’ rather than ‘Master’ is tantamount to a pernicious slur. Ron merely sloughs it off like water off a duck’s back.

“How has work been, Ron?” Hermione enquires pleasantly. After Ron dropped out midway through his Auror training, he’d thrown himself into becoming George’s partner at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with admirable results. A penchant for mischief certainly flourishes in the Weasley bloodline, Hermione considers with equal parts admiration and resignedness.

“Business is booming – George reckons we’re going to need to hire two more staff by the end of the month if it keeps up,” Ron shares with a satisfied grin.

“That’s good news, mate,” Harry chips in. The black-haired wizard had been the one to suggest to Ron that he consider a career in the magical retail sector; Ron had been down in the dumps for weeks after making the difficult decision to leave the Auror program, moping aimlessly around The Burrow and Hermione’s flat. Harry’s unwarranted guilt at encouraging Ron to join him – mingled with Ron’s unspoken but persistent jealousy of Harry’s fame and talents – had markedly soured their triad.

Hermione is proud of Ron for making a success of the fraternal business in his own right (he’d implemented a side line of Quidditch products, both functional and comical, and started a not-for-profit charity recycling hand-me-down Quidditch gear to poorer wizarding children), but her pride is quickly suffused by indignation and umbrage at Ron’s next off-hand remark.

“Speaking of which, I’ll bring round the payroll books tomorrow for you to sort out, Hermione,” Ron confidently proclaims as he makes short work of his ice-cream. “George keeps nagging me about pulling my weight in the office,” he sighs dramatically.

_What in the name of Merlin?_

“Hold your Hippogriffs, Ronald Weasley,” Hermione warns in a dangerously low tone. “Since when did I commit to performing your bookkeeping for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?”

Harry’s eyebrows have shot up to his head; Hermione senses his frantic metaphorical throat-cutting gestures in her peripheral vision as she furiously focuses on Ron’s placid face.

“You always help me out, ‘Mione.” Ron is impervious to her blistering hostility. “I know you won’t mind.”

 _Draco was right – I’ve not only excused Ron’s inadequacies and character flaws, I’ve encouraged them. Enabled his laziness and promoted his misplaced sense of entitlement._ The insight dismays Hermione, even as it bolsters her reaction to Ron’s staggering hubris.

The long room seems to shrink as Hermione rises to her booted feet, stepping to the side before carefully pushing in her dining chair. She gathers every ounce of her aplomb to speak clearly, precisely and ruthlessly.

“Ron. I love you dearly, and I always will. I want you to be happy and successful and fulfilled for the rest of your life. You’ve been an integral part of my existence for twelve years, and I sincerely hope we’ll always be friends.

“Which is why I am unequivocally telling you – no more. No more taking me for granted. No more assumptions that you can expect my help with your own responsibilities without even having the courtesy to ask me first. No more dropping into my flat unannounced, no more mooching from my fridge and pantry, no more drunken appeals for a “shag for old times’ sake” when you’re lonely or nostalgic.”

Harry makes a pained, strangled noise at the last comment; Hermione ignores him and ploughs on.

“No more telling your family and our friends that you’re just ‘waiting on me to come to my senses’ while you cheerily throw your leg over whichever silly fawning witch you’ve picked for the night. No more nasty cracks about my ‘brainiac bent’ or uptight personality or boring fashion sense. I will not tolerate it.”

The implacable gravity in Hermione’s voice has struck a chord; Ron stands up, all cheer vanished from his expression.

“I like your boots,” he mumbles sullenly, gazing at her with unusual shrewdness.

Hermione accords that response all the attention it deserves – zilch – and turns for the hallway. Harry quietly helps her don her coat as Ron leans in aggressively.

“Is that a hickey on your neck?” he demands, suspicion sharpening his plosive consonants. “That’s a man’s coat, too – is that why you’re being such a bitch tonight? You’re seeing someone else?”. Ron’s sulkiness has contorted to possessiveness in a split second.

Ignoring his vindictive accusations, Hermione hugs Harry warmly. “I’ll speak with you soon.”

“Goodnight, Kreacher,” she calls; the manservant is lurking silently at the base of the staircase (enjoying her dressing-down of Ron, if the satisfied glint in his eye is any marker).

“Goodbye, Ron. Come see me when you’ve grown up a bit.” Quickly opening the door, she only half-hears Ron’s infuriated sputter before closing it decisively behind her.

 _Sorry, Harry_. Hermione sends a wordless apologetic vibe to her friend. Ron is going to be insufferable for some time – but that’s no longer her problem.

The crispness of the night air is refreshingly soothing on her temper-inflamed skin; Hermione allows a few moments to bask in it, and in the wonderful sensation of freedom.

But not for long: she knows exactly where she wants to go next.

Anticipation coils a joyous knot in her belly even as wild nervousness embeds alongside it.

_‘Too cowardly’, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind the cliffhanger - Chapter Nine is being posted immediately.


	9. Pyrotechnics

_Friday 21 February 2003: PM_

Draco has his black roll-neck jersey sweater half-off when someone bangs heartily on his front door knocker. Three perfectly spaced raps, a pause, then three more less patient beats.

“Alright, I’ll be there in a minute!” he yells, the words muffled as his head gets stuck in the unfurled turtleneck. He thrashes around in a frustrated lather until the dratted garment slides back down.

 _Great. My hair’s a right mess now_ , Draco gripes as he hurries down to the first floor, rolling the high collar back into place. Two unheralded visitors in less than a week. Although technically Granger doesn’t count – she was a refugee, of sorts.

Flinging the door open irritably, Draco blinks stupidly at the identity of his caller.

 _Hermione Granger_. Upright, alert, and… magnificent. Rosy-cheeked, glossy-haired, thrumming with energy and purpose. A glorious amalgam of contradictions. Innocent and professional in a brown tweed skirt suit and simple buttoned white business shirt; sexy as hell in the tightly tailored dark mahogany waistcoat and killer knee-high heeled boots. Draco’s donated black pea coat flows from her petite shoulders and flutters in the mild winter breeze as they stare at each other in silence.

Before his addled brain and mouth can join forces in speech, Hermione catapults into his arms, homing in on his mouth and ravaging it with gusto. Her clever hands comb through his achromatic locks ceaselessly, alternately tugging and smoothing, as she wedges herself snugly between Draco’s splayed thighs, braced against the outside wall of his townhouse.

Her pliant lips on his set Draco’s blood afire. Hermione is all heat and motion – just like last night, he thinks dazedly – but with an extra uninhibited fervour that was lacking yesterday. Like she’s carefully considered all the angles, plotted her options, researched his proposition to the nth degree… and to his amazement, she’s decided to go all in.

And he may be selfish and undeserving, and this is most likely a one-shot, one-night deal… but Draco thoroughly intends to ensure the whole transcendent experience is spectacular and unforgettable. For them both. He recovers his equilibrium enough to succumb to the temptation to run his strong, nimble fingers over every part of Hermione that he can reach, hands slipping beneath her coat feverishly. The sweet indent of her waist and gentle flare of her hips, her whimper of pure need as he pulls her closer still and kneads her curvy little bum, the tweed catching against the callouses on his palms… Draco’s heart thuds capriciously as he falls deeper into a seemingly bottomless well of lust and need and primal instinct.

Seemingly intent to mirror Draco’s actions when he pinned her against the wall of her flat yesterday evening, Hermione is lapping at his jaw and biting hot, drugging kisses down his windpipe. Reaching the barrier of his high collar, she transfers her attentions to the side of his neck, licking at a small freckle just below his left ear that Draco never knew was insanely sensitive.

He’s losing control at a frighteningly rapid rate; with a concerted effort, Draco regains his inveterate discipline. He is used to being dominant, having honed and enjoyed the role in his previous sexual encounters; but his body is helplessly reacting to Hermione’s unbridled and eager erotic ministrations to a degree that may bear further examination.

But not tonight. In a single fluid move, Draco hoists Hermione off the stoop, devoutly cupping her pert buttocks and switching their positions so that she is pressed against the wall. He holds her there just long enough for her to wrap her long legs around his waist, growling in satisfaction as Hermione quickly catches on and locks her ankles for support. Her hands move to his shoulders as Draco bolts back into his house, slamming the front door shut with the sole of his foot before tackling the staircase.

He can’t stop kissing and touching her, making each upward step more precarious than the last; fortunately, his athletic reflexes save them from disaster and he practically gallops into his bedroom once they’ve reached the landing.

The lamps are already on from his abortive attempt to undress a few minutes ago. Draco lowers Hermione onto his bed, waiting until she has steadied herself before he plucks off her overcoat. It falls unheeded beside them. He guides her to lie on her back against the soft swan-white duvet of his bed, swinging up her shapely legs. Before he settles back into the warm cradle of her spread thighs, Draco tilts her head and carefully emancipates her hair from its loosely pinned knot, fanning her abundant sienna tresses across the pillow, marvelling at its satiny, dense texture and vibrant tones.

Hermione’s eyes are huge and shine with undisguised hunger and wonderment as they track Draco’s attentive movements. She breathes shallowly as Draco peppers open-mouthed kisses against her silky throat, propping himself on his elbows as his talented lips and tongue exult in their downward journey. Her hands reach for him; Draco lightly bats them aside as he kneels and begins unhurriedly undoing the buttons of her jacket, vest and simple blouse, anointing each uncovered inch of olive skin with a kiss. When he reaches the tops of her breasts above her lacy bra, Hermione thrusts upward zestfully, moaning candidly.

 _She’s so receptive to the slightest graze of my hands and mouth_ , Draco thinks wonderingly. Hermione’s cupid’s bow lips part as she sighs in bliss.

Before he succumbs to the temptation of gleefully worshipping her plump breasts, Draco withdraws his hands, leaning back on his heels to gaze deeply into Hermione’s lustrous dark eyes. He is taken aback to realize that they haven’t said a word since he opened his door.

Draco rasps solemnly, “Granger. Look at me, please. Tell me what you want. I need to hear you say it.”

Scrambling to her knees, Hermione peers searchingly into Draco’s blazing argentate eyes. She doesn’t hesitate to voice her consent, smiling saucily at him.

“I want you, Malfoy. I want you to undress me and touch me and kiss me and talk dirty to me and ravish me all night. And then do it all again.”

 _Well. No ambiguity in that declaration_ , Draco thinks jubilantly. He leans forward again with a wolfish grin, but Hermione’s small hand firming against his torso signals a halt.

“I haven’t finished,” she announces authoritatively. “I want to kiss and touch and explore you, too… What do you say, Malfoy?” she asks insouciantly. The light tremble of Hermione’s fingers belies her nonchalance.

Draco enfolds his hand around her quivering digits, caressing the jittering pulse point at her delicate wrist with his thumb.

He doesn’t break their intense eye contact as he reassures her, “It’s alright, Granger – I’ve got you.” Draco’s own heartbeat is caroming crazily, stabilizing only after Hermione bestows him with a nod of assent and radiant smile.

“What are you waiting for, then?” she teases, swiftly finding the hem of his roll-neck sweater and pulling it over his head and arms before flinging it carelessly into a far corner of his bedroom. Draco gasps at the electrifying sensation of Hermione frantically running her hands across his sculpted chest and shoulders and back.

 _Forget chemistry – this is nuclear fucking fission_. Draco draws a deep breath and re-applies himself to the delightful task of stripping Ms. Hermione Granger down to her birthday suit. She doesn’t make it easy for him as she constantly strokes his alabastrine skin and nuzzles fiery kisses into his neck and jawline. When her thumb brushes the hard nub of his nipple, Draco growls in pleasure and warning, lightly encircling her wrists with one strong hand as he fluidly unfastens the side zipper on her skirt.

Sliding down Hermione’s body, Draco unzips her boots, tossing them in the vague direction of his turtleneck. His intention to go slow has been decimated by the heady reality of the beautiful, willing woman in his bed.

Working feverishly, Draco divests Hermione of her skirt suit, vest and work shirt, leaving her in a matched set of lacy ivory knickers and bra. The stunning sight renders Draco perfectly witless for a few seconds; pure lust and longing and raw need coalesce, stilling his energetic reconnaissance of Hermione’s lovely body.

She sits up again, her impatient fingers fumbling at his belt and trousers. Draco snaps back into action; he whips off his belt and undoes his fly, toeing off his shoes and wrenching off his socks in a whirlwind of frenzied motion. He groans as Hermione helps drag down his trousers – whether by accident or design, her hands skim lightly over the front of his black boxer shorts and inflame his already rock-hard cock and aching balls.

Hermione dips her head thoughtfully to the side at his reaction, replicating her touch with more pressure. “Do you like that, Malfoy?” she tantalizes, an impish smirk hovering round her mouth at Draco’s involuntary moans.

“Harder,” Draco instructs in a hoarse whisper. She readily complies, as Draco pushes roughly against her palm. He thrusts his hands into her hair, pulling her closer to kiss her deeply, his tongue mimicking the urgent rhythm of his hips.

Hermione whines ecstatically as Draco deftly unsnaps the back clip of her bra, tugging the straps to her elbows and branching his hands across her gorgeous breasts, canopying their soft weight as he strums her blush-pink nipples with the tips of his thumbs. Her hands fall away from his pulsating groin as she collapses back onto the bed.

Her pretty bra joins the rest of the discards in the corner; Hermione tilts her hips without being asked as Draco slips his fingers beneath her semi- transparent knickers and smooths them down her legs, stroking reverently. He is quietly shaking from the iron control he is employing right now – his painfully tumescent cock is screaming for release – but he is determined to wring every last drop of ecstasy out of their joining.

_Hermione deserves nothing less._

Draco’s dogged resolve is sorely tested as Hermione entreats, “Please, Malfoy – I’m burning up, I want you... I need you inside me…”. Her hands scrabble zealously at his underwear, managing to jerk them off his buttocks and down to his knees before he can stop her.

“Wait, wait –“ Draco comes to his senses long enough to grab his puddled trousers off the floor, fishing his wand out of his trouser pocket to cast a contraceptive spell on himself. He speedily steps out of his boxer shorts and prowls unselfconsciously back to the bed, his large cock bouncing against his lean abdomen. Draco’s ego is gratified by the wide-eyed admiration in Hermione’s gaze as she stares thirstily at his naked form.

Sprawled wantonly across the chalky bedding, Hermione looks like a goddess, Draco decides – her beautifully proportioned limbs and voluptuous curves; velvet-soft skin flushed rose with arousal; sparkling eyes and dulcet lips and a luxuriant mass of tawny curls. Her glorious breasts and taut nipples, the sweet glimpse of her pink quim as her legs shift restlessly.

Noting where Draco’s glance is straying, Hermione grins wickedly, leisurely drawing up her left leg into a right angle before dropping it flat, further exposing her sex to his avid eyes.

 _The sly little witch knows exactly what she’s doing to me_ , Draco muses with begrudging admiration. _Time to turn some tables._

Draco pounces on Hermione’s supine body like a wild panther, bracketing her wrists above her head as he notches his throbbing cock between her silken thighs. He drags his engorged phallus slowly through her soft, dampened labial lips; they simultaneously moan at the exquisite friction.

Resting his head atop her shoulder, Draco nips delicately at Hermione’s earlobe as he murmurs throatily, “You like my cock rubbing your perfect little pussy, don’t you, Granger? You’re so wet for me already… you’re going to come so hard; I know you will. I want to hear you scream as your pretty pussy squeezes my dick…”

Hermione writhes beneath him, straining to free her hands. Draco releases them, gripping her hips to agilely flip her atop him.

“Ride me, Granger – take what you need, _ma belle_. Show me how brave you are, _ma tigresse_.”

She needs no further urging. Steadying herself with one hand locked against his chest, Hermione reaches between their slick bodies, wrapping her fingers around the base of Draco’s rigid shaft to guide him into her wet channel, plunging downwards in one swift movement to bury his cock to the hilt inside her tight pussy.

Draco crushes his eyes shut involuntarily as Hermione moans huskily, shifting her position a little as he fights to keep his hands steady on her soft hips. Every one of his nerve endings is alight with delirious pleasure, coaxing him to thrust up inside her; Draco counts backward from a hundred in a desperate attempt to stop himself from spilling prematurely.

Fortunately, Hermione appears to share his torrid imperativeness. Her long, luscious curls curtain them both as she works herself unhesitatingly over Draco’s stiff cock. He opens his eyes again to find Hermione watching him intently, her pupils dilated, transforming her expressive eyes from brown to almost-black.

Draco senses that she is close to orgasm; he slides his thumbs to her labia, stroking through her silky mound, before using his right digit to hold her roseate lips open while his left thumb expertly stimulates her clitoris. He quickly finds a rhythm of alternate flicks and deep presses that Hermione responds best to, whispering encouragement to her in susurrant French.

“Malfoy – don’t stop, I’m gonna come –“ Hermione gasps, tilting forward as she chases her orgasm.

“That’s it, _ma ch_ _érie_ … you look so sexy, taking your pleasure… come for me, Granger…” Draco croons, as his own climax hurtles toward him like a tsunami. Hermione clenches around him, crying out incoherently as her pulsating contractions precipitate Draco’s release. He surrenders to pure sensation with a guttural groan, clutching Hermione tightly to his torso as she teeters drowsily in the aftermath of their colossal detonation.

When his heart stops threatening to torpedo his rib cage and he can breathe without gulping like a fish out of water, Draco gingerly shifts Hermione’s exhausted form to lie beside him, tucking her back to his front as he pulls the bedding from beneath them, before drawing the covers over them both. Hermione grumbles unintelligibly when Draco reaches out to manually turn off both bedside lamps. She settles quickly, snuggling back into him as he cautiously wraps his right arm around her.

Despite the amazingly powerful feeling of relaxed euphoria singing through his blissfully exhausted body, sleep eludes Draco for the time being. He frowns into the darkness as Hermione slumbers peacefully next to him, her warmth bringing him both comfort and unease.

 _I’m in way over my head_ , he finally admits to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the French translations for this chapter. 
> 
> Ma belle femme – My beautiful woman.  
> Ma tigresse – My tigress.  
> Ma chérie – My darling.


	10. Prolongation

__

_Saturday 22 February 2003: AM_

Hermione wakes gradually, hazily aware of a mellow torpor transfusing her relaxed body. She yawns as she nestles closer to the deliciously toasty strapping male body juxtaposing her naked back.

 _Wait… what?_ She freezes in the act of stretching her bare toes against the warm shins behind her. Despite the stygian darkness of the room, her senses tell her she definitely is not sleeping in her own modest bed in her little flat in Bexley. The bed linens are incredibly soft against her unclothed skin; the room is faintly redolent of a subtle arboreal tang; and the lack of ambient street noise suggests that the room she currently occupies is sturdily soundproofed.

Her tense muscles unbend as memories of the extraordinary night swamp her thoughts. _Malfoy_. _I’m in Draco Malfoy’s luxurious bed, in his exclusive, expensive townhouse. With Draco spooned in behind me_ … _his thick cock snugged into the posterior juncture of my thighs._

Draco’s steady breaths puff against her tangled hair as he sleeps, his long supple body shadowing her own from his neck to his feet, his right hand curled securely around her hip. Hermione muzzily remembers collapsing atop Malfoy in a nerveless heap in the aftershock of her spectacular orgasm, and his solicitous attentiveness in settling her beneath the bedclothes before he’d enfolded her fatigued body in their current embrace.

Hell’s bells, has she already overstayed her welcome? Hermione worries at her bottom lip, fretting about her inexperience of the correct protocol for a one-night stand. Had Draco wanted her to leave straight after their tumultuous tryst? Malfoy can be blunt as a sledgehammer with a pithy put-down or cutting observation, but his highborn upbringing shows in his old-fashioned chivalry and meticulous manners. Perhaps he was being grudgingly polite in letting her sleep in his fancy bed instead of bundling her straight out the door?

Hermione chews over the matter in the lightless chamber, her discomposure rising as she contemplates that she may have already overstepped the conventional boundaries of a casual sexual liaison. A glum sigh falls from her downturned mouth as she judges that she’d best arise and make her way back home.

The smoky hum of Draco’s voice right next to her ear arrests her sidelong shift. Her breath hitches in surprise.

“Granger - I can hear you over-thinking in my sleep. What’s going on in that hyperactive brain of yours now?” he grouses, towing her back to lie flush against him again. Draco lightly rubs his pointed chin against the top of her curly head pacifyingly; his nimble fingers trace hypnotic roundels against the downy skin of her hip.

The rhythmic pattern Draco is lazily creating is both titillating and sedative and weakens Hermione’s renowned acumen. She makes a concerted effort to ignore the enrapturing effect of Malfoy’s touch; it won’t do to reveal her entrenching susceptibility to his sexual proficiency. His robust ego doesn’t need any more stroking.

Summoning the vestiges of her self-possession, Hermione replies, “I was thinking about returning to my flat.”

Draco’s blunt-tipped fingers precipitously still on her hip; a strained pause lapses.

In a cultured monotone, he confirms, “You want to go home, Granger?”. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d think Draco was wounded by her suggestion. _Hah_. Her post-coital fuzziness has her at sixes and sevens.

“I didn’t say that,” Hermione warily responds. _Is Malfoy toying with me now? He must realize how comprehensively I fell apart in his arms._ She is relieved that the murk of night hides her blush at the memory of her explosive orgasm.

“You’re staying.” Draco flatly announces. “I distinctly heard you earlier – you requested that I ‘ravish you all night’.”

Draco rolls away from her nude back momentarily, pulling Hermione flat onto the mattress. His muscled thighs briefly slide over hers before he couches himself between her parted legs, bumping them a little farther apart until his broad upper trunk is comfortably settled. Dormant desire ignites to a steady simmer as Hermione unquestioningly succumbs to Draco’s assured dominance, trying (but failing) not to gasp at the rhapsodic sensation of his hot flesh compressed against the sensitive skin of her belly and loins.

The lamp nearest Hermione’s head blinks on suddenly, illumining them in an annular patch of muted light; Draco must have activated it wandlessly. Her rapidly blinking eyes are inescapably attracted to his glittering dark heather orbs. They regard Hermione intensively as he speaks in a low thrum.

“Tell me to stop.”

“No.” Hermione whispers breathlessly.

“’No’ – you don’t want this? Or ‘no’ – don’t stop?”. Draco is balanced with his elbows outside her hips, his fingers slinking agonizingly slowly toward the afferent skin of her midriff.

“No – _don’t stop_ ,” Hermione confirms, stretching to link her svelte arms above her head and arch her back; brazenly offering her creamy, perky breasts to the gorgeous young man currently bedevilling her libido. A tiny part of her capable brain wonders at her unfaltering sexual boldness with Draco. Is it because of their stupendous physical chemistry, or does their historic enmity allow her to override her usual scruples of decorum and reserve?

 _I don’t care what the answer to that riddle is, as long as Malfoy doesn’t bloody **stop**_ , Hermione thinks headily.

“Ravage me, Malfoy,” Hermione challenges him, her dark caramel eyes aflame.

Draco looks up from under his thick fringe of white-blond hair, his unusual eyes alive with carnal promise. “Oh, I will,” he smugly boasts, finally allowing his dextrous fingers to curve across the underside of her arousal-swollen breasts. He hisses in satisfaction when the tips of his index fingers instantly coax her rose-pink nipples into stiff buds, plucking them with building pressure as Hermione eagerly pushes into his palms.

“ _Si réactive_ ,” Draco breathes, plainly fascinated by her fervid responsiveness. “ _Tu aimes ça n’est ce pas,_ hmm?”. His ragged breathing matches her own as Draco bends his head to bestow delicate, feathery kisses around her left areola. “ _Tu as de si_ _jolis seins_ ,” he mumbles as he pops her swelled nipple into his warm mouth and suckles, just shy of painful.

 _Oh my giddy aunt, that feels so freaking good!_ Hermione bites her lip to keep from screaming her thought aloud. And Draco speaking French is unbelievably hot. She only has a dim notion of what he’s saying, but the foreign words on his clever tongue are ratcheting her arousal into the redline.

Transferring his masterful mouth to her right breast, Draco meticulously duplicates his dewy attentions, licking and tonguing her pebbled nipple as his busy hands massage the base of her achy bosoms. The only outward signs of Draco’s own skyrocketing arousal are his erratic inhalations and the slight shake of the low bed frame as he subtly rocks his pelvis into the mattress against Hermione’s sprawled thighs.

“More, Malfoy – please, more…” Hermione stutters, elevating her hipbones in a futile attempt to drag his groin closer to hers. Draco tut-tuts, liberating her breasts from his heated mouth to grin sinfully at her frowning frustration.

“Patience, Granger… you’ll come with my hands first, then my cock,” he states confidently, giving her tender breasts a concluding firm squeeze before scooching back to sit up in front of her exposed lap. Hands trailing indolently down the slight roundness of her belly, Draco maps every inch of ticklish skin, lips quirking as his sleek touches raise goosebumps.

“You goddamn tease, Malfoy!”.

Hermione snatches his trailing left wrist and directs it unequivocally to where she needs him. Draco’s strong marmoreal hand ruffles through her damp honey-brown curls, stroking her pudenda in a maddeningly slow manner. Groaning in vexation, Hermione begins to prop herself on her elbows to protest the delay. Draco forestalls her action, slipping his left thumb against her nub and two of his long, artistic fingers deep inside her. He lets loose a satisfied grunt as she mewls helplessly, once again lying recumbent.

Watching her with hooded, intense eyes, Draco employs his gifted digits to apply steady pressure to Hermione’s clitoris as well as cadenced plunges into her slick channel; his right hand returns to twang at her inflamed nipples. The acute blend of sensations causes Hermione to babble wordless encouragement: a primitive language that Draco miraculously correctly decodes as _more_ and _faster_ and _harder_.

Hermione senses her apogee unstoppably approaching; rather than climbing a peak, she tumbles down a rabbit hole of pure animal physicality. Her vision telescopes to the narrow vignette of Draco’s unwaveringly focused face as he pitilessly manipulates her erogenous flashpoints, pumping his fingers until her pulses reduce to languid, irregular flutters. His hands return to her breasts, reverently charting their velvety contours and boundaries. His prodigious shaft palpitates restively against her leg.

Utterly blissed out, Hermione indolently cracks open her eyes, skin aglow.

“More?”

Draco’s lips twist with predatory intent; his fair head bends to hover over her flushed face.

“More,” he confirms, using his left hand to line up his turgid cock with her wet centre; he pushes slowly inside Hermione as his lips descend on hers in a ferine kiss. Draco snarls against her parted mouth as Hermione binds her trembling legs around his waist, spurring him deeper with her heels on his muscular bum. The new angle stretches her around his hard length and sparks immediate small flames of renewed lust.

Mustering the last remnants of her energy, Hermione matches Draco’s rigorously unhurried tempo stroke for stroke, their tongues tangling with bruising pressure and little finesse. She doesn’t think she can come again – not after her recent riotous combustion, plus she usually doesn’t peak more than once – but Draco is hitting a spot on her inner wall that has her panting and imploring him to keep going.

Draco doesn’t disappoint, snaking his limber hips obliquely a little to apply more pressure to her labia, watching her unblinkingly with that fierce expression of rigid control and attention. The additional attrition on her clitoris works wonders; Hermione stammers out his name and yields to her second climax. It is not as powerful as her first, but the smoldering, rapturous waves seem to linger longer.

Finally permitting his tenacious mastery to snap, Draco roars something filthy in French as he comes deep inside her. Hermione grips him tightly with her still-spasming sex, shaky legs and unsteady arms. She cedes to the urge to sweep his dampened etiolated locks off his sweaty forehead, her thumbs tracing across Draco’s darker eyebrows. His beautiful grey eyes remain closed as he momentarily rests his weight upon her.

 _Sweet mother-of-pearl… Malfoy is going to downright ruin me if this keeps up_ , Hermione muses perplexedly. Draco was right when he spoke about their powerful chemistry. Not that she’ll admit that to the smug git any time soon.

Hermione lets her hands sink limply to the bed as Draco levers himself off her, rolling to the side and tucking her cernuous head against his chest. She fumbles to help him adjust the duvet.

Draco keeps his eyes shut as he mumbles, “Go to sleep now, Granger.” His levelling heartbeat thuds comfortingly against her ear as Hermione tentatively rests her hands against his side.

She drowsily decides she is already dreaming as Draco skims a gossamer kiss against her forehead.

**********************

Shuffling through the neatly folded stack of winter pullovers in his meticulously arranged built-in wardrobe, Draco settles on the dark sorrel merino wool vee-neck and eases it from the pile. He casts a furtive glance at the connecting door between his bedroom and the bathroom; it stays ajar, and he can hear Hermione’s bare feet padding on the tiles. Presumably, she is still occupied wrangling her silky mass of coppery coils; Draco recalls that it took him an age to painstakingly comb her damp strands on that first night.

Satisfied that Hermione won’t be in a position to witness what he is about to do, Draco points his wand at the innocuous vesture in his right hand and quietly mutters, ‘ _Diminuendo’_ , concentrating on its proportions until the sweater shrinks to the size he guesses to be correct. Sliding his wand back into the pocket of his slim-fit black chinos, Draco adds the re-sized fine woollen jumper to the collection of Hermione’s apparel on the end of his bed.

Not a moment too soon. Clad in a fluffy indigo bath sheet, Hermione walks into the room and makes a beeline for her clothing, scooping up her underwear before casting a curious look at the brown vee-neck.

Gliding his hands into his pockets, Draco adopts an insouciant tone. “I thought you might prefer to wear that to brunch, Granger – it’s more casual than your suit jacket.”

“Thank you – but it likely won’t fit me,” Hermione demurs, rubbing the soft material between her fingers admiringly.

“Try it on anyway – it shrank in the wash the last time I laundered it,” Draco fibs, ignoring Hermione’s arched left eyebrow. He bundles the blasted article into her arms, making for the door post-haste. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

He skedaddles down the staircase before she can probe at the mystery of the pullover’s provenance. Taking up position beside the coat rack, Draco’s thoughts drift ineluctably to last night’s phenomenal happenings. And then, half an hour ago – waking to find Hermione wreathed around him like a vine, her head still pillowed on his torso… and his arms agreeably keeping her there.

Mild panic had propelled Draco into jitterily crawling out of his own bed, carefully dislodging the sleeping witch from his person and then moving at a snail’s pace until the bathroom door had snicked shut behind him. He’d turned the shower taps on high and doused himself with jets of water (initially stingingly hot, then punishingly cold) in a bootless effort to dispel the overarching tingle of giddy felicity flooding his mind and body.

 _It’s just good sex – ok, ‘breathtakingly fantastic sex’ is closer to the mark_ – he’d reiterated sternly, ignoring the excited twitch of his overstimulated dick at the reminder. _I haven’t had sex in yonks. That’s all this is._

A mantra Draco had resolutely reaffirmed as he’d walked back into his bedroom after his shower to discover Granger seated on the edge of the bed, unselfconsciously and splendidly nude as she’d extended her arms above her head in a lackadaisical stretch, her unfettered breasts bouncing enticingly at the lazy movement.

Draco’s breath had caught in his throat as Hermione had smiled shyly and bid him, “Good morning”; she’d modestly crossed her arms and legs in response to his warmly avaricious gaze.

“Morning,” he’d croaked, floundering as he’d cast about for his vaunted Occlumency mental armour to galvanize.

To cover his fluster, Draco had announced, “Shower’s free. We’ll go out for brunch when you’re ready – there’s a fine little café nearby that does all day breakfasts.”

Crinkling her nose in mild reproof, Hermione had mocked, “' _Would you like to have a shower, Granger? And perhaps accompany me to a café brunch afterward?_ ‘Why yes, that sounds marvellous. Thank you, Malfoy.”

Hermione’s impudent grin as she’d sashayed past had deserved the light swat on her delectable backside that she’d received. Her surprised squeal had shifted into a chortle before she’d retreated into the steamy bathroom.

Shifting his weight edgily on and off the hallway runner, Draco nods decisively to himself. _Just good sex._ Combustible, incendiary, unusually gratifying coition with the ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ – amazing, but true. And they both need to eat. And discuss their… status.

Checking the landing again, his eyes capture his reflection in the fretworked mirror. He is aghast at the sight. _Wipe that imbecilic fucking simper off your face, fool! Merlin’s saggy sac, I’d rival a backward troll for doltishness._

“Malfoy – is something the matter?” Hermione’s voice floats to him as she descends the stairs, slinging him a puzzled look. “You appear to be sneering at a defenceless mirror.”

“Just practising for the general public,” Draco wisecracks, mugging a leering wink at Hermione as he surreptitiously takes in her appearance. She is wearing her white business shirt beneath the borrowed brown sweater; Draco is quietly satisfied with his hasty downsizing estimate, as the jumper lovingly delineates her full breasts, notched waist and curvy hips. The tweed skirt and foxy brown boots complete her ensemble. Her unmade-up face is glowing with relaxation and good health, and her hair is moderately tamed into two glossy plaits.

Fidgeting under Draco’s extensive appraisal, Hermione drops her eyes and begins struggling into her raven-coloured greatcoat; he moves quickly to help her don the bulky raiment. Pulling on his midnight blue overcoat, Draco seizes the navy scarf off its hook and weaves it securely around Hermione’s exposed neck, tying it off in a loose knot before poking the ends beneath the lapels of her buttoned-up coat.

He staves off the ready protest hovering on her lips. “Don’t quarrel, Granger – daylight’s burning and my stomach is shrivelling with hunger. Let’s go.”

Rolling her eloquent eyes at him, Hermione silently condescends to precede Draco through the front door; they set off for the café with his right hand irresistibly pressed to the small of her back.

Her boot heels are quite high, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the translated snippets of French for this chapter.  
> My apologies if they're not entirely accurate.  
> si réactive - So reactive.  
> Vouz aimez ça, n’est-ce pas - You like that, don’t you?  
> Tu as de si jolis seins - You have such pretty breasts.


	11. Negotiation

__

_Saturday 22 February 2003: AM_

Despite its somewhat barbarous title (‘ _Death before Decaf_ ’) the bustling café Draco has brought her to is agreeable, Hermione concludes as she puts down her menu and assimilates the milieu of the well-patronized establishment. The exposed ‘caged’ lightbulbs, rough-finished brickwork and industrial metal tables and chairs are bang on for the warehouse trend, but the harshness of the look is softened by comfy padded cushions and mismatched receptacles overflowing with greenery.

Draco and their middle-aged server had greeted each other by their Christian names (“Lovely to see you, Bonnie,”) before the sprightly waitress had led them to what was apparently Draco’s preferred table in the far corner. It boasts a comprehensive vista of the street outside and the clientele within, whilst ensuring relative privacy.

Hermione had chosen the chair with its back to the entrance; she’d belatedly realized at their Italian dinner on Wednesday night that Draco favours sitting with his back to the wall and keeping the entirety of the interior in sight. It is a strategy that she also habitually employs – doubtlessly borne of their personal trauma of the terrors of war, she contemplates dolorously.

Making a concerted effort to dispel her melancholy introspection, Hermione glances at her brunch companion. Draco is occupied with precisely lining up his cutlery and napkin, having taken a lightning-quick look at the single page of breakfast options and nodding favourably. She takes the liberty of canvassing the man without his nacreous grey eyes lasered upon her.

Dressed in a taupe button-down checked twill shirt with a faint black stripe, mocha zip-up merino gilet vest and black chinos, Malfoy looks coolly dashing. Like he just stepped out of the pages of one of the Charles Tyrwhitt menswear mail order catalogues that she used to optimistically seed around her flat, hoping that Ron would take the hint that his wardrobe could benefit from a classy upgrade.

The closest Ron had gotten to perusing the advertisements was when he’d rolled up one to swat a hapless fly, Hermione recollects. Well-loved sports t-shirts, threadbare flannels and holey jeans covered most of Ron’s clothing needs... according to Ron, anyway.

Peering covertly at Draco from beneath her lashes, Hermione wonders at Malfoy’s curiously thorough adoption of a Muggle lifestyle: he resides in a high-end urban locale, wears quality apparel, patronizes restaurants and cafes, is familiar with historic landmarks and appears to perform his household domestic chores without magical assistance. The man cooked her breakfast without picking up his wand, for heaven’s sake.

Unaware that her eyebrows are knitted in mystification, Hermione jounces in her seat as Draco drawls, “Like what you see, Granger?”. His lips kick up at the corners as her cheeks pinken.

“Malfoy - why do you live like a Muggle?” Hermione impulsively petitions the sardonic blond.

All traces of indolent diversion vanish as Draco’s expression instantly shutters. He tips back his head; his displeased scowl could curdle fresh milk.

“Why do you?” he counters, after an uncomfortably weighted pause.

“I was born to Muggles – as you _incontestably_ comprehend,” Hermione answers curtly. “Why are you dodging the question?”.

“Why are you pressing the issue?” Draco retaliates.

They are practically spitting out their bristly words now, both leaning forward across the cramped café table, glaring cantankerously at each other.

“Why are you answering a question with another question?” Hermione fires back.

Hands cramped into peeved fists on the tabletop, Draco icily expostulates, “By Merlin’s beard, Granger – must you know _everything_?”.

“Have we met?” Hermione parries incredulously.

“Invasive much?”

“Evasive much?”

Neither is aware that their low argumentative assailments have garnered the attention of an enthralled spectator until Bonnie cheerfully breaks in, “My daughter Liza tells me there’s a popular name for this sort of thing… what did she call it? ‘BURST’?”. Bonnie taps her order pencil to her lips in concentration.

“It’s ‘URST’ – an acronym for ‘Unresolved Sexual Tension’,” Hermione blabs before she can stop herself. “And it’s _resolved_ ,” she grouches under her breath. Not quietly enough, judging by Draco’s ireful glance.

“Yes, yes – that’s it! You two have it in spades,” Bonnie beams, ignoring Hermione’s beet-red visage and Draco’s dramatically rolling eyes.

“Thank you, Bonnie,” Draco smiles tightly. “How is Liza? Is her new job working out?”.

Bonnie eagerly seizes on the new topic of conversation and runs with it, chattering animatedly about Liza’s sales career aspirations and fancy new company car. “We’re right proud of her, that we are, Draco,” she preens.

Fascinated by this hitherto unseen convivial aspect of Draco’s personality, Hermione is disappointed when Bonnie remembers she’s not yet taken their brunch orders.

“You shouldn’t have let me prattle on – I do love to sing my children’s praises,” Bonnie chides with a smile. “What can I get for you, then?”

“Oh – I’d like the Full English, with a large latté, please,” Hermione requests.

“You won’t be able to finish the meal, Granger – it’s massive,” Draco loftily declares.

Before Hermione can indignantly defend her appetite, he adds magnanimously, “I’ll help you out with it, never fear.”

 _The bold-faced audacity of the man!_ Hermione fumes silently as Bonnie nods approvingly.

Turning smoothly to Bonnie, Draco politely informs her, “May I have the ‘Very Merry Berry Crepe Stack’ and a flat white in a mug, please?”

“Of course, Draco dear. Won’t be long,” Bonnie favours him with a fond pat on the shoulder before hustling back to the kitchen.

Draco flicks a non-existent piece of lint off his sleeve and irritably barks, “Do wipe that silly smirk off your face, Granger. Your mercuriality is positively head-spinning; I’ve no idea why you’re sniggering to yourself now.”

Hermione chirpily crows, “Would you be so kind as to repeat your brunch order, Malfoy? Perhaps reciting ‘ _Very Merry Berry_ ’ once more will sweeten your sour disposition,” and she doesn’t make any attempt to stifle her cackling mirth.

Draco suffers through her burbling chuckles in stolid silence; he must have a hell of a poker-face, Hermione gauges. He folds his paper serviette into a double fan origami shape as he waits for her laughter to subside.

The sight of Draco’s skilled fingers manipulating the thick tissue into a minor work of art makes something plunk oddly inside Hermione; her jollity fades as she wonders at the myriad strata of the man’s persona.

And watching his nimble hands fold and twiddle the paper inevitably evokes the corporeal memory of the finesse of Draco’s touch on her eager body. Her thighs squash together as she tries to suppress this constant, smouldering… itch? Craving? Greed? All of the above?

Hermione’s face falls as she contemplates the fixed possibility that Draco has brought her to the café to tell her that her absurd eagerness for his sexual tutelage has repulsed him; that his offer is hereby rescinded. She cringes at her ridiculous dismay at the prospect and digs her short nails into her palms beneath the table.

“Well, Granger? Run out of things to razz me about already?” Draco gently teases as he swaps her unshaped serviette for his. His eyes snap to her downcast ones when she doesn’t retort.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” The actual concern in Malfoy’s voice is incontrovertible, which serves only to further baffle her.

 _Rip off the Band-aid in one swift motion. You are a strong, intelligent woman who isn’t afraid of anything. With the exception of heights. Well, falling, to be exact. No - you are most afraid of **failing**_ , a nasty inner voice buzzes.

 _Screw that_. Hermione straightens her spine and locates her flagging valour.

“Malfoy, if we’re here for you to tell me that you are done with… this thing we’re doing… that’s fine. You needn’t worry that I’ll make a public scene,” Hermione braves eye contact with Draco as she speaks with a confidence she doesn’t feel. “Just say whatever you have to say.”

“Just say whatever I have to say,” Draco echoes, eyeing her as though she’s speaking Xhosa. He scours his hand through his hair, rapidly mussing his suave coiffure. Hermione steels herself to not visibly react to his next words; she bites the inside of her cheeks to stop her telltale face from betraying her disappointment.

Having reached some kind of internal decision, Draco tautly conveys, “Granger… I enjoyed having sex with you and I want to do it on a regular basis.” He needlessly shuffles the salt and pepper shakers around, before returning them exactly to their original positions. “Dependent on you feeling the same way, of course,” Malfoy adds, the tips of his well-shaped ears reddening. 

_Why, he’s as nervous as I am._ The realization of Draco’s unanticipated vulnerability is as startling as it is endearing. Forgetting her self-entreaty to _Be cool, bitch_ \- Hermione’s smile radiates across her face.

She tries to dial it down a notch but is aware that her mouth is still stretched wide as she sedately replies, “Yes – I’d like that too, Malfoy.” His answering grin is staggeringly attractive: he looks boyishly handsome as his gunmetal eyes crinkle at the corners and all traces of taciturnity vanish.

They concurrently exhale in relief as they continue to grin fatuously at each other; the moment is breached when Bonnie slides their coffees on the table. Hermione blinks, grateful for the timely interruption, and murmurs her thanks.

She fiddles at her tall, transparent glass as Bonnie remarks approvingly, “There you go, dears. Your meals aren’t far away. Draco, you be sure to keep smiling like that at your pretty girlfriend… you do make a lovely couple, and that’s no mistake.”

Draco’s alarmed consternation is writ large upon his pallid face; Hermione covers her snicker with her hand.

“Thank you, Bonnie,” Draco grits. “Hermione’s not my girlfriend, though.”

Bonnie is undaunted. “Oh, partner, significant other, sweetheart, what-have-you… whatever you young people prefer to call it these days. I know a romance when I see it!”. Cheerfully ignoring Draco’s garbled protests, Bonnie bounces away with a conspiratorial wink.

Hermione laughs unreservedly at Draco’s disgruntlement. “Oh, Malfoy – your expression is hysterical!” she gasps jocularly.

“You’re not helping – why the deuce didn’t you set her straight? Now I’ll never hear the bloody end of it,” Draco upbraids. “I don’t want – or _need_ – a girlfriend,” he adds scathingly, rapping his lean fingers against his porcelain coffee mug for emphasis.

“Perhaps you should wait until you’re asked,” Hermione frigidly ripostes, unfathomably stung by Draco’s tempestuous assertion. “I certainly don’t need – or _want_ – a boyfriend.” She takes a quick sip of her hot latté, grateful for a prop to disguise her trembling hands. They are quivering in anger at Malfoy’s arrogant assumptions, of course. _No other reason_.

“Excellent. We’re on the same page.” Draco rolls on, oblivious to her nuanced turmoil for once.

“What page is that?” Hermione snips. Her eyes dart around the café like an agitated dragonfly.

“No romantic entanglement – a mutually beneficial, purely sexual liaison. Shall we say… twice a week? I’m unavailable on Friday nights. Do Wednesdays and Saturdays suit you, Granger?” Draco sips appreciatively at his own coffee as he awaits her reply.

 _A purely sexual liaison. Good. Great. Perfect._ “For how long?” Hermione blurts, heart walloping haphazardly at the query.

Draco shrugs indifferently. “Until one of us calls a halt, I suppose. These things usually have a manifest end marker, you know.”

 _No. I don’t know._ Hermione stills her tongue from repeating the words in her mind. She will borrow a leaf from Malfoy’s book and be the very epitome of sophistication and self-assurance during their (solely) carnal dalliance.

“And what of safe sex? Will you be seeing – I mean, will you be engaging in sexual intercourse with other women?” Hermione forces the words through stiff lips. The fact that the image of Draco in another woman’s bed leaves her feeling queasy – that’s just her conservative upbringing kicking in. She is now a cosmopolitan woman. Best to know the score.

“No.” Draco’s answer is immediate and uncompromising. “And I won’t share your favours with other men – so have the courtesy to sever our arrangement if you develop a tendresse for another,” he sharply instructs.

He scornfully elaborates, “Especially if the Weasel comes sniffing back around.” Draco’s hand roughly grabs the handle of his mug as he drinks again, fierce eyes trained statically on Hermione’s flushing face.

“I don’t cheat, Malfoy,” Hermione hotly defends against his insinuation. “You’ll be the first to know when the elusive Prince Charming fits my missing glass slipper and we elope to Paris in the springtime,” she apprises him sarcastically.

“Good.” Draco’s eyes still harbour a febrile gleam; it surprises Hermione that he is aggravated about a moot scenario. _He truly detests Ron_ , she figures.

Hermione opens her mouth to automatically defend Ron’s honour but is stymied by the arrival of their food. Just as well – she has vowed to stop reverting to dysfunctional habits and blindly leaping to Ron’s defence certainly falls under that shady category.

“Here you are, lovelies, apologies for the wait. The chef gets fussy about the sausages, they have to be perfect – impossible to ruin a banger, if you ask my humble opinion – but she finally decided they were plate-ready and here I am,” Bonnie burbles happily.

 _Blimey… Draco wasn’t exaggerating about the monstrous portion_. Hermione gulps as Bonnie pushes the gigantic serve of generously buttered toast, and two each of fried eggs, the aforementioned thick pork bangers, and rashers of crispy bacon. Plus grilled tomato and mushrooms and a scoop of saucy baked beans.

Helpless as to where she should begin, Hermione faintly thanks Bonnie and glances at Draco; he is zealously carving into his appealing stack of cream-infused crepes dotted with blueberries, raspberries and strawberries. Obviously enjoying her discomfiture, based on his condescending grin as he loads a combination of berries onto his fork.

Boosted by her long-held vow to never let Draco best her at anything, Hermione dives in, holding her cutlery like weapons as she dissects and spears and chews. The scrumptious, hearty fare is just what she requires; her passionate night with Draco expended a lot of energy, and the rich proteins and carbohydrates are already bolstering her vitality. She begins to slow halfway through her plate, though. Draco offers her the final bite of his crepes, chuckling as she groans feebly and waves it away.

“I did warn you that your eyes were too big for your belly,” the impudent scoundrel can’t resist teasing. “There’s no shame in admitting defeat, Granger,” he cajoles, as she grudgingly prods her two-thirds consumed repast across the table to him.

“Oh, I call bollocks, Malfoy,” Hermione carps. “When have you ever publicly admitted defeat?”.

Draco pretends to give the matter some thought, drawing down his mouth in an exaggerated expression of contemplative admission. “No, you’re right – I don’t believe I ever have,” and he winks as he crunches a strip of bacon between his even white teeth.

Hermione transitorily closes her eyes, her full stomach and mild sleep deprivation lulling her into a genially relaxed state.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Granger,” Draco’s melodious voice interrupts her mild reverie. “The meddlesome questions you launched at me earlier: I’ll answer a select few, provided that each answer is rewarded with a kiss,” he lazily propounds.

Hermione’s eyes flash open, instantaneously suspicious. Draco is the picture of innocence as he exactingly polishes off her brunch. All correct posture and proper table manners. Except for the rapacious gleam in his silvered eyes as they rest upon her, Hermione thinks with a thrilled shiver.

“Just a kiss?” she asks demurely, deliberately moistening her fuller lower lip with her tongue tip.

“Just a kiss for an answer,” Draco confirms, licking at his own lips in a way that makes Hermione imagine other uses for his smart mouth. Shifting restlessly in her chair, she recklessly offers her right hand to seal the deal.

“Very well.”

Wiping his hands meticulously on his serviette before he slides his palm against hers, Draco keeps their handshake connected as the now-familiar frisson of electricity sparks betwixt their skin.

“Deal.” Still holding her hand, he turns it over to sensually rub his thumb across her knuckles.

Hermione masks her chagrin as Draco clarifies, “But not here – I’ve no wish to fan the flames of Bonnie’s die-hard romanticism,” he dryly points out. “Are you ready to leave?”.

“Yes, thank you.” As she’s come to appreciate, Draco helps her put on her pea coat and scarf before donning his own; Hermione thinks wistfully that in another lifetime, she would like to compliment his mother on instilling such admirable manners and thoughtfulness. The absurdity of the idea of conversing with Narcissa Malfoy to commend her on her son’s punctilious etiquette makes her mouth twist wryly. _If wishes were horses, beggars would ride_ , she reminds her goofy imagination.

Draco rests his hands lightly on the lapels of Hermione’s coat after her scarf is affixed in place.

“Granger – I plan on making some covert enquiries this week. Regarding the scum who drugged you,” he tells her in a low, grave undertone. “I still have a few connections to the scaly underbelly of the wizarding community, and I intend to prise out some answers. Don’t drop your guard, alright?”.

“No – I won’t,” Hermione promises, flustered by the depth of intensity in Draco’s expression as he stands a few inches from her. “Thank you, Malfoy. I know that… that you most likely saved my life, last week. I appreciate it. More than I can express,” she awkwardly divulges. Her umber eyes shine with tribute and gratitude.

“Come now, Granger – don’t be getting all ‘Gryffindor gooey’ on me,” Draco chastises, his smile not extending to his eyes as he steps back, gesturing for Hermione to proceed him through the café. “It was nothing.”

 _But it **was** something_, Hermione corrects silently, waving goodbye as Draco pays their bill, endures a rib-crushing hug from Bonnie (slipping a generous tip into her apron pocket, unnoticed) and tolerates the amiable waitress’s exuberant exhortation to return soon, and only with Hermione in tow.

_It was something special. Just like Draco Malfoy._


	12. Petition

_Sunday 23 February 2003: PM_

The White Wyvern hasn’t altered one whit since he last darkened its doors, Draco thinks with a grimace as he heeds the placement of his feet on the rickety steps leading up to the Knockturn Alley pub. The last time he came here was… with Lucius, back in Sixth Year. ‘The Year Everything Went to Shit’, Draco amends bitterly.

Pausing at the top of the stairwell for a moment, Draco surveys the rusty signboard depicting a white dragon with an arrow-tipped tail, fire pluming from its mouth. Like everything in this insalubrious backstreet, it could benefit from a good scrub – but would likely disintegrate at first contact with soap and water.

 _You’re not sixteen anymore_. _And you once counted these men your friends._ Draco gulps a final calming breath before he pushes open the creaking heavy door and enters the taproom.

He keeps his eyes slitted for a few moments, letting them adjust naturally to the pervasive gloom. The weak drone of desultory conversation falters at his entrance. Draco quickly scans the murky interior, soon spying his invitees; he swiftly strolls to the secluded compartment in which the two men sit.

“Hello, Malfoy.” Blaise Zabini uncoils his long, lean form to stand beside the booth; Theo Nott merely tips his head in idle acknowledgement of Draco’s arrival. “Have a seat… mate,” Blaise adds in a cynical drawl.

“Gentlemen.” Draco slides onto the cracked leather bench alongside Blaise, resisting the urge to twitch at his pristine wizard’s robes. He meets Blaise’s piercing coal gaze with perfect composure. Theo seems content to analyze the serving of firewhiskey held loosely in his thin hand.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Draco begins. “I’ve asked you here for –“

“Skipping the small talk, eh?” Blaise interrupts. The bone dry humour that Draco remembers from their time at Hogwarts is still thriving, judging by Zabini’s puckish grin and glittering eyes.

“Shame. I was highly anticipating hearing the potted history of your apparent withdrawal from the realm of magic… let’s hear it anyway, shall we? I’ve nothing better to do,” Blaise prompts. He whistles a sharp note.

“Barkeep! A bottle of your finest… Well, whatever is best,” Blaise revises his order. The perpetually morose barman grunts dolefully as he reaches for a bottle on the top shelf, beady eyes shifting as he stealthily blows a gobbet of dust off its cap. Sticking his grimy fingers into three more tumblers, he trudges to their booth to sullenly deposit the lot on the pocked table.

“Put it on my tab,” Blaise flicks the saturnine man a couple of Knuts, which the bartender snatches from mid-air with surprisingly alacrity. He snorts once before lumbering back to his station behind the bar.

Pulling a snowy handkerchief from the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored navy suit, Blaise carefully wipes off the delineated grubby fingerprints on the inside of each glass.

“Probably best if we don’t order food,” he laconically recommends, sliding a tumbler in front of each of them.

“Seconded,” Draco concurs. He has no desire to test the menu of gelatinous pork pies and grease-sodden chips, in any case.

Pouring a generous measure of liquor into each tumbler, Blaise chinks the glasses together and toasts, “To renewing old friendships!”, his full lips quirking at the dig. Theo remains silent but tips back his beverage and swallows in one hit.

Draco’s dram stays untouched. “It’s just gone noon, Zabini. I’ll pass.”

“Practising temperance now, Draco? Never mind – you can instead use your mouth to tell us where you’ve been skulking for the last four years.” Blaise’s tone has sharpened from droll to biting.

“Leave him be, Blaise,” Theo directs with quiet authority, his shamrock green eyes peering up from beneath his ruffled otter-brown fringe. “I’m more interested in knowing why we’ve been suddenly summoned to meet in this pisshole.”

 _Here goes nothing. And I **have** shamefully neglected my old friendships – there’s no denying that_, Draco admits.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch before now,” Draco apologizes haltingly. “I had to… I chose to make a clean break from my prior associations, for personal reasons.” He’ll be damned if he spills his guts any further; this admission is difficult enough as it stands.

His companions stare at him speculatively; Draco fights the compulsion to fidget, instead meeting their scrutiny with a steady impassivity.

“What, that’s it? That’s the sum total of your excuse for being a weak prick who dropped us like hot bricks?” Blaise huffs in disgust. He slams down his emptied tumbler onto the pitted tabletop; it threatens to topple but eventually stabilizes.

“My rationale is personal,” Draco evenly rephrases, struggling to keep his temper placid.

 _You promised Granger that you would investigate – don’t cock it up now_ , he sternly coaches himself.

Zabini shoots Nott a look that Draco cannot interpret. The atmosphere in the booth is fraught with negative emotion as the silence swells. His companions finally reach an unspoken consensus of some sort: Theo shrugs carelessly as Blaise leans forward, his ebony face set in uncompromising lines of disfavour and affront.

“We’ll grant you a temporary reprieve on that score,” Blaise clips out the concession. “Go on, then – why are we graced with your Lordship’s presence?”.

Refusing to take the acrimonious bait, Draco keeps his eyes levelled on Blaise as he calmly replies, “I need your help.”

“Of course you do,” Theo murmurs wryly. He abandons his drink, straightening against the shabby back of the booth to regard Draco with unnerving perception. “It’s not Galleons you’re after; nor sanctuary. Someone close to you is in trouble,” he guesses shrewdly.

Draco concentrates furiously on projecting non-reactive detachment at Theo’s canny insight. He covers his unease with a circumspect admission.

“Not exactly. I’ve recently become embroiled in a disturbing situation that warrants further research… Have either of you heard any rumours or reports of a wizard (or wizards) targeting and drugging witches? With a modified lust potion?” Draco closely tracks their expressions for any variance of reaction to his enquiry.

Blaise frowns immediately, hunching over the table in an attitude of stiff condemnation; Theo is less easy to read, but his eyes and mouth tighten infinitesimally.

“A ‘rape club’?” Blaise’s disgust is plain; his brawny hands violently crimp into ready fists. “What the hell is going on, Malfoy?”.

“Draco – is your mother in danger?” Theo butts in, his voice sharp with urgency and worry. Draco is unsurprised by Nott’s anxiety: ever since they were little kids, Theo has worshipped the ground Narcissa floated over. And their affection is mutual; Narcissa’s steadfast kindnesses towards the thin, quiet, motherless boy had sparked Draco’s petty childish jealousy on more than one occasion. 

“No – Mother is safe and well,” Draco hastens to assure Theo. “She rarely leaves the Manor, these days.”

He turns to a seething Zabini. “I believe that a couple of rogue wizards are currently trying to incapacitate and abduct witches for undoubtedly fell purposes, Zabini. And they’re using a combination of lust and forgetfulness potions – as well as a Muggle tranquilizing additive – to do so.”

Draco’s volcanic rage flares as he recalls Hermione’s woefully impaired state when he’d discovered her limp form on his frigid doorstep. _What if I hadn’t awoken? What if the scum had doubled back and found her there before I had?_ Draco pretends a fascination with tracing the graffiti crudely carved into the tabletop to mask his gnawing unrest.

“How does this concern you?” Blaise grills him. “Are you married now? Surely we would have heard of your illustrious nuptials if you were,” he comments scathingly.

Exasperated, Draco rolls his eyes and counts to five before he retorts, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Zabini. Rest assured: in the extremely unlikely event of my future wedding, you will receive a hand-delivered invitation. No, I’m not bloody married, or engaged, or involved in any love affair.”

 _My amatory agreement with Granger definitely doesn’t apply. We both agreed on the parameters, and the less these two know about that, the better_ , Draco judges.

“I’m not at liberty to divulge more details, at this stage,” Draco concedes. “But I would greatly appreciate any and all intelligence you can gather on the subject. Please.”

He has done his homework; Blaise is a noted mover-and-shaker in the Ministry, putting his easy charm and diplomatic skills to work in the import/export subdivision on the International Magical Training Standards Body. And although Draco hadn’t found out much about how Theo fills his days, Nott’s long-standing proficiency with potions should generate a few leads. Not to mention his family’s chequered association with the Dark Arts – but Draco isn’t stupid enough to open that can of worms today.

“What’s in it for us?” Zabini yawns, affecting disinterest… though his twinkling, shrewd eyes belie his curiosity.

“My eternal gratitude?” Draco deadpans. Pre-empting Blaise’s rebuff, he holds up his left hand in a placatory gesture. “Sorry. I’ll owe you both a great favour, to be called in whenever you like.”

Theo is the first to accept, wordlessly holding out his hand; Draco shakes it before Nott can change his mind. Blaise shrugs, grinning widely as he copies Theo’s gesture.

“Consider yourself warned, Draco – I’m only doing this on the condition that you tell us _everything_ before this is all played out. Agreed?” Blaise applies more pressure than necessary and doesn’t release Draco’s hand until the blond nods reluctantly.

“Agreed.”

Theo muses, “Have you considered that this scenario may be the work of some still-at-large Death Eaters? There are a few unaccounted for yet, yes?”

“Or Neo-Death Eaters,” Blaise interposes. He soberly elucidates, “Word at the Ministry is that Potter and a crack team of Aurors have been hunting a pack of the wannabe whoresons through France and Belgium for weeks.”

 _Harry Potter. Maybe Hermione **should** take this to Potter, despite her obstinate refusal to involve the Ministry._ Draco is startled to realize that his concern for the brunette witch has him actually considering approaching Potter himself.

Memories of overheard conversations between the loathsome Death Eaters who’d infiltrated Malfoy Manor upon Voldemort’s return slither unpleasantly through Draco’s consciousness. Rowle, Yaxley, Dolohov and Greyback had relished detailing their revolting schemes for the Order of the Phoenix’s female members once The Dark Lord reigned supreme once more. Hermione and Ginny Weasley had played starring roles in the quartet’s sick fantasies of debasement, torture, rape… and worse.

Striving to cleanse his mind of the sickening images, Draco is relieved as Theo advises, “I’ll send out a few feelers regarding the lust potion, but it may take some time before I hear anything back.”

“That reminds me.” Draco pulls out a sheaf of parchment, and slides it across to Theo. “I analyzed a sample - this is the list of known ingredients, including the flunitrazepam – that’s the Muggle sedative.”

Scanning the vellum intently, Theo frowns as he assesses Draco’s inclusion of known effects. “Was this woman hospitalized after ingestion?” he probes.

“No,” Draco is forced to admit. “She refused - just before she ejected her stomach contents all over me. Hence cleansing her system of most of the potion. I did monitor her throughout the night in case she took a turn for the worse.” He ignores Blaise’s braying guffaws.

“May you live in interesting times, mate!” Zabini crows gleefully. “What I wouldn’t give to witness the dynastic Lord Malfoy drenched in vomit!”.

“I’ve given you that one for free, Zabini. Don’t ride it until the wheels fall off,” Draco warns disdainfully. “Can you put your powers of persuasion to good use for once and track down more information from your Ministry contacts, Blaise?”.

Blaise nods, reflectively rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Excellent.” Draco rises, holding out his hand again to his fellows. “Owl me when you have something to report, yes?”.

Theo and Blaise stand up to complete the farewell ritual.

“Draco - give my regards to Lady Malfoy, please,” Theo bids.

“You know you can call her Narcissa, Theo – she gave you permission ages ago,” Draco observes. “You should visit; Mother is starved for company, and I know she misses you.”

Theo runs his slim hand across his face and chooses not to respond.

Blaise claps Draco on the back (a tad forcefully, as is Blaise’s wont) as he slides past him to exit the booth.

“Don’t be a stranger, you snooty bastard,” Blaise admonishes.

“It was good to see you again,” Draco tells his old friend, sincerity evident in his voice. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

Heading for the door, Draco pulls up the hood of his robes to cover his distinctive milk-white hair and hustles to exit Knockturn Alley as quickly as possible.

_Thank Paracelsus that’s over._

* * *

_Sunday 23 February 2003: PM_

“Door’s unlocked, Hermione love - on’y got ter give ‘er a push,” Hagrid’s booming bass voice easily penetrates the door of his hut. Hermione follows his instructions (the push Hagrid spoke off is more of an effortful shove – the door is sticking on an uneven floorboard, she guesses) and eventually is admitted into the welcome warmth of Hagrid’s home. The big man himself is sliding a tatty tea cosy over a giant pobby teapot; once it is lopsidedly covering the china, Hagrid bustles over to envelop Hermione in an affectionate bear hug.

“Yeh're a sight fer sore eyes, Hermione!” Hagrid beams joyfully, ruffling his huge mitt-like hand through her curly brown mop as though she is still eleven years old. Hermione’s arms don’t meet around Hagrid’s broad back, of course; but she fondly returns the embrace as best she can.

“It’s always good to see you too, Hagrid – I’m sorry it’s been a while.” Hermione gives him a final affable squeeze before gently extricating herself. “How have you been?”

“Ah, yeh know – can’ complain, no one ter listen,” Hagrid jokes. Hermione steps back a little, the better to scrutinize his familiar features. Besides a few more lines on his rubicund face, and extra strands of grey laced through his flowing jet-black hair, Hermione is relieved that her dear old friend looks much as he did when they first met.

Her gaze travels to the lit fireplace; on the hearth, a gigantic basket holds Fang the boarhound and Hermione’s half-Kneazle cat Crookshanks. Poor Fang wears a long-suffering expression on his lugubrious head as Crooky lies atop the lengthy ridge of Fang’s spine, busily kneading the sable fur with his front paws. And occasionally extending his sharp claws into Fang’s pelt, Hermione perceives disapprovingly.

“Crooky, stop that –“ Hermione moves to the fireside, kneeling to pet both creatures before gingerly prising Crookshanks’s orange murder mittens off the massive dog. Crookshanks allows her to cuddle him in her arms, his butterscotch yellow eyes twinkling with refracted firelight and self-satisfied devilry.

“Don’ worry ‘bout them, Hermione – they’re best o’ friends, an’ Fang knows Crooky don’ mean nothin’ by it, it’s jus’ a game he plays,” Hagrid reassures her.

“You shouldn’t treat your friends unkindly, Crooky,” Hermione lightly scolds, lovingly chucking his marmalade-coloured chin as the substantial feline purrs appreciatively. She carries him to the table and carefully sets him on her lap after clambering onto a tall chair.

 _It’s difficult not to regress to childhood when all the furniture makes me feel like Lemuel Gulliver stranded in_ _Brobdingnag_ , Hermione smiles to herself. Apropos of nothing, she wonders if Draco has ever read Jonathan Swift’s iconic masterpiece. Shaking her head, she focuses on the conversation at hand.

“Will Luna be joining us, Hagrid?”. After the war, Luna Lovegood had surprised many by pursuing her aptitude for Magizoology: she’d completed her training overseas before returning to teach at Hogwarts. First as Hagrid’s apprentice, then recently as his co-Professor for the Care of Magical Creatures classes. Hermione isn’t shocked at all by Hagrid and Luna getting along like a house on fire – their unique (often under-appreciated) personalities harmonize easily, with only the occasional blip on a difference of opinion.

“Luna tol’ me she’ll be comin’ once she finishes givin’ the Thestral herd their treats,” Hagrid reveals, carefully pouring strong black tea into the teacup in front of Hermione.

 _I hope she washes her hands first_ \- the thought flashes through Hermione’s mind involuntarily. Harry told her once that Luna gifted the Thestrals lumps of raw meat, after they rejected apples. _Ugh_.

Reaching into her little charmed bag, Hermione retrieves the packet of McVitie’s Chocolate Digestives she’d stashed in there earlier, adding them to the array of Hagrid’s infamous raisin-studded rock cakes sprawled on a platter on the table. Ordinarily Hermione would have baked and brought some scones or muffins, but today’s visit had been a spur-of-the-moment idea borne on a sudden wave of nostalgia and longing for fellowship. The choccy biscuits will serve as an alternative to the tooth-cracking rock cakes for today.

Adding milk and sugar to her steaming tea, Hermione sighs happily. Fang has unfolded his bulk from the basket and yawns hugely as his head leans against Hagrid’s thick leg.

“How’re yer goin’, Hermione love? Migh’ be jus’ me imagination, but yeh got a righ’ glow to yeh today.” Hagrid looks her over keenly, his benevolent gaze lingering on her neck. Hermione uneasily worries that she hasn’t thoroughly covered Malfoy’s fading love bites on her delicate throat with enough glamour charms; she furtively pushes her new navy scarf higher.

“Must be the warmth of the fire, Hagrid,” she ad-libs. “Was it a harsh winter here at Hogwarts?”

Unfortunately, Hagrid won’t be dissuaded from following his notional conversation thread.

“Yeh got a new sweetheart, Hermione? Or have yeh taken pity on Ron an’ given him another chance?” Hagrid persists. Even Fang has perked up his ears, and the traitorous Crookshanks stabs her upper thigh slyly through her dark denims.

“Ow! No, I’m not gifting Ronald another chance – the opposite, in fact. I did give him a piece of my mind on Friday night,” Hermione confides. The overweening impulse to confide in someone swamps her better judgement as she gabbles, “But there is – I mean, I’m seeing – well, not dating – a new man…” she trails off uncertainly, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut as Hagrid’s puzzled expression transmogrifies to approval.

“Yeh’re bein’ courted by a new fella? Well an’ if it’s not past time, an’ all,” Hagrid excitedly professes.

“No – we’re not courting… um, it’s more of a… a physical relationship,” Hermione awkwardly stresses. It is a battle of blushes as Hagrid’s stunned comprehension reflects in his florid complexion and Hermione flushes bright crimson.

“Well – yeh know – jus’ as long as yeh’re happy, Hermione… an’ – an’ _safe_ ,” Hagrid near chokes on the final word.

 _Oh Merlin, why didn’t I keep my daffy trap shut_? Hermione miserably berates her reckless desire to over-share. This is almost as bad as the humiliation she’d suffered at the age of eleven, when she’d attended the sex and relationship education classes with her dad at the local community college; Dr Granger had enthusiastically stuck his hand up ad nauseum to answer questions (Hermione sinking lower in her seat every time, until she was in danger of tipping onto the floor).

Hermione rushes to reassure her surrogate father figure, “Yes, yes, don’t worry, Hagrid. We’re both consenting adults and we’re quite – quite safe. He’s been very good to me, actually.”

She crumples her jumpy fingers into Crooky’s dense tangerine coat, wishing she had the courage to confess the identity of her mystery ‘lover’. But Hagrid is unlikely to take it well (Draco did actively try to get him sacked and Buckbeak executed, after all) ; and he has a patchy track record of not being able to keep a secret, no matter how well-meaning his attempts.

On cue, Hagrid avidly enquires, “Yeh goin’ ter tell me his name, love? Go on, then, don’ keep me hangin’!”. Fang copies Hagrid’s earnest grin, panting cheerfully around his prodigious yellowed teeth.

“Oh, well, we’re… we’re keeping it very quiet and private, Hagrid,” Hermione hedges apologetically. “There are some people who would cast judgement and censure us both, so… it’s best if I don’t say. It’s not serious, or permanent, so it doesn’t really matter, you see.” She forces herself to stop her rambling justifications.

Hagrid is quiet for a long time.

His amiable face is unusually sober as he rumbles, “Yeh’re one o' the smartest people I ever knew, Hermione – ‘smatter of fact, yeh prob’ly got brains leakin’ inter yer hair… but sometimes, love, yer heart don’ listen ter yer head, and that’s when trouble begins, like as no’.”

“Now I’m no’ sayin’ yeh’re makin’ a mistake, or that I don’ support yeh – never think so, love – but I reckon keepin’ secrets don’ work out real well, no matter yeh start wi’ the best of intentions. Tha’s all I’m gonna say about it, an’ yeh know I’m always here for yeh, Hermione.”

Hagrid breathes deeply after his uncustomarily lengthy speech; his bright pitch-black eyes are sorrowful as they traverse Hermione’s young face. Poignant tears sting at Hermione’s eyes as she unceremoniously bundles Crookshanks onto the floor before fiercely hugging her dear friend, tucking her head sideways into his hulking shoulder.

“Thank you, Hagrid – that means the world to me, as do you,” Hermione warmheartedly avers.

Hagrid tenderly returns her embrace, gruffly mumbling, “Yeh’re alright, love, don’ worry.”

Sniffing away her silly tears, Hermione lets herself be comforted a little while longer. Her exasperatingly strident inner voice tries to goad her into admitting that Hagrid may have a valid point; she willfully ignores it and produces a watery smile.

“Let’s enjoy some afternoon tea, shall we?”. They sip the robust hot brew and chatter desultorily about everything and nothing, occasionally patting Fang or Crookshanks as the two animals compete for their attentions.

Hermione lets contentment wash over her like the pale winter sunlight receding across the grounds of her treasured alma mater.

 _I’ve mistaken loneliness for independence for too long_ , she realizes. _Too scared of failure to take chances and live my dreams._

And all it took was a terrifying threat to life and limb to shake her out of her dreary, insipid reality, she mocks.

_No more cowardice; I will live the life I choose. And deal with the consequences, come what may._


	13. Florescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning: mention of attempted sexual assault**

__

_Monday 24 February: AM_

“Oh, Ms. Granger – it’s the most marvellous thing! Come see, quick!” Marilda Sandore all but drags Hermione out of the lift and into the atrium on Level Two of the Ministry. Her low heels clatter impatiently as they whip through the foyer, Hermione bobbing helplessly in her wake like a small dinghy tethered to a yacht.

“Marilda - Mrs. Sandore - let’s slow down, please –“ Hermione has never seen her supervisor so animated. Not without a few brandies under her belt at the annual office Christmas shindig, anyway. Marilda is fit to bursting with infectious excitement; Hermione cedes defeat and lets herself be towed in the general direction of her own small cubicle in the Wizengamot Administration Services division.

As they round the final corner, Marilda careens to a halt, dramatically flinging out her hand in a sweeping gesture of revelation.

“Look – just look!” she squeals, clapping her hands together in a very un-Marilda-like fashion.

 _What on earth?_ Hermione can do naught but gape moronically at the bizarre tableau currently crowding her minimal office space. 

Flowers. Roses. _So many roses_ , she thinks dazedly. One huge bunch of orange and yellow blooms… and a lesser bouquet of coral buds, interspersed with smaller flowers Hermione isn’t yet close enough to identify.

Marilda is talking nineteen to the dozen beside her. “I took the liberty of placing them in vases when they arrived – goodness knows, I didn’t want to risk them drying out before you’d even seen them, my dear! There’s a note attached to each… I didn’t peek – of course not – but I will admit that I’m simply dying to know who sent them…”

 _You and me both, sister_ … Hermione advances incrementally, mind officially boggled by the anomalous floral spectacle. The multitude ( _two dozen, perhaps?_ ) of tiger-orange and butter-yellow roses are almost full-blown and powerfully fragrant, a few petals already scattered across her desktop; they seem cheerfully conscious of their flamboyant beauty. The coral blossoms are uniformly perfect, half-opened and dewy-fresh. Peeping around their delicate petals are sprigs of dark apricot witch-hazel, and four variegated peach/white tulips.

‘- and you may not be aware that I am well-versed in floriography – that’s the language of flowers, Ms. Granger; I’d be delighted to tell you what each posy signifies, if you like?” Marilda’s exuberant offer breaks through Hermione’s stupefaction. 

“Uh, right… Huh?” Hermione mumbles, her shapely fingers reverentially caressing the plump, downy petals of the smaller nosegay.

“Oh! Since you insist, I don’t mind if I do,” Marilda barrels on delightedly. “Orange roses denote enthusiasm and passion; the modern take on yellow roses is tender love developing from friendship. However, traditionally yellow roses meant jealousy and infidelity – fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Quite intriguing,” Hermione assents distractedly. “And the other arrangement?” she prompts her manager.

Marilda leans in, gazing wistfully at the profusion of harmonious colours and textures on Hermione’s desk.

“Coral roses embody desire… _flagrant_ desire. Then you have the variegated tulips, which convey ‘You have beautiful eyes’. And the witch-hazel – “ she nods at the kinked apricot clusters – “they say, ‘You have cast a spell on me’.”

Sighing theatrically, Marilda eyes Hermione admiringly. “You’re a lucky lady, Ms. Granger, to inspire such depth of feeling, and thoughtfulness.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione baulks at the idea. “Perhaps they were sent here by mistake.”

Her hands fumble to locate the small envelopes attached to each bunch with colour-corresponding ribbons. But there can be no error attributed to either delivery – each envelope distinctly bears her name. The mixed posy bears a bulky, over-sized card, with ‘Ms. Hermione Granger’ neatly printed on it. The smaller missive (belonging to the bigger bouquet) simply has “HERMIONE’ scrawled across the front in a messy, familiar script.

Hermione is torn between absurd amusement and perplexity. Ron’s writing is easily recognizable and exemplifies his personality: bold, carefree, lively and untidy.

 _I suppose I should be glad he didn’t address it to ‘Mione’; but what is he about, after the telling-off I gave him on Friday night?_ The over-the-top gesture is confounding.

 _And the other bunch? Could it be... from Draco? But why?_ He left her in no doubt on Saturday morning of his disdain and aversion to ‘romantic entanglements’. _Gracious, is there a sex thing hiding in the chunky envelope?_ Hermione’s eyebrows rocket upward in alarm. She needs to distract Mrs. Sandore – and fast.

Unknotting the ribbons, Hermione safely stows both envelopes in her jacket pockets, before grabbing the large orange and yellow rose cluster with both hands and pushing it towards Marilda.

“Mrs. Sandore, would you please keep these in your office for me? In fact, do what you wish with them. I don’t have room enough for both, and I’d be most grateful if you’d take them off my hands. Please,” she tacks on.

“My dear, I couldn’t possibly! And you haven’t divulged the identity of your suitor – or is it _suitors_?” Marilda’s face is wreathed in fervid curiosity.

Hermione cultivates an expression of solemnity. She whispers, “I’d rather not go into details right now, Mrs. Sandore… it’s a tricky situation; but I would appreciate your assistance, and discretion. I know I can trust you with this.”

Marilda looks thrilled to be offered the role of floral co-conspirator; she purses her lips together and nods staunchly. “Of course, Ms. Granger. I understand completely.”

 _I’m glad someone does_ , Hermione can’t help thinking wryly.

“I’ll pop these in my office straight away, and then take them home tonight. It won’t do Mr. Sandore any harm to wonder if I have a secret admirer of my own!” Marilda gleefully trills. She takes possession of the proffered posy and hustles into her office.

Momentarily relieved, Hermione sags into her desk chair, pushing the remaining flowers to the rear of her small desk. Their scent is delicate and whimsical: subtler than their sunny cousins, but no less alluring. Having assured herself that no one is watching, Hermione empties her pockets of the florists’ envelopes and quickly slices open each one with her paper knife.

She chooses Ron’s card first.

‘My darling Hermione,

I’m sorry I’ve taken you for granted.

I’ve been a selfish plonker but I heard what you said and I’m going to change to be the man you need me to be.

Please give me another chance. You won’t be sorry.

Love, Ron.

Ps. Mum said you should come to Sunday dinner.’

 _He should’ve placed a comma after ‘plonker’_ , Hermione automatically corrects. _Shit! This isn’t his homework_. Except… it feels like she’s set Ron to work fixing his latest Charms essay and he has dutifully written out her instructions.

‘I’m going to change to be the man you need me to be’. Ron may claim to have heard what she said… but Hermione doesn’t wish for him to be anyone other than the best, truest version of himself. Not a different person, simply to please _her_. 

And the prosaic, post-scripted invitation to the traditional Weasley Sunday dinner… Hermione shakes her head dispiritedly. A year ago, she would’ve fallen on the grandiose flowers and lacklustre invitation with blind hope and defiant optimism. Anything would have been an improvement on Ron’s previous hasty offerings of limp convenience store flowers and bargain bin chocolates. ‘Last-minute love tokens’ as Hermione had despairingly dubbed them.

 _What’s that Andy Warhol quote?_ ‘As soon as you stop wanting something, you get it’?. Hermione pouts in aggrieved solidarity. Also, a cynical tract of her mind suspects that Ron’s precipitous wooing may be traced to some encroaching caveman jealousy at the thought of Hermione with another man.

 _I can’t deal with Ron right now_ , she decides. _It’s Monday morning, for crying out loud. And I've only had one hasty coffee._ She reaches for the remaining envelope with an edgy fervency, sliding out a card and a… Kit Kat?

Hermione tips back her head and laughs throatily, uncaring of the odd glances she is no doubt attracting from her nearby colleagues. Mystery solved. And no crotchless knickers or nipple clamps to worry over.

‘Granger –

Eat the chocolate at your leisure: I have more for Wednesday evening.

You’ll need the energy boost.

Come by Floo and bring work clothes for the morrow.

I want you in my bed all night.’

Unsigned, but patently written by Draco Malfoy. Had Hermione not already remembered the beautiful, backward-slanting copperplate penmanship from his apology letter - the preeminent tone of arrogant assertiveness is a clear Draco hallmark.

 _Why does Malfoy’s high-handed dominance turn me on so much?_ Hermione nibbles at her bottom lip as she broods over the conundrum. _Is it the novelty?_ Her core body temperature rises as she thinks about Draco’s last sentence. The damnably sexy devil has her all in a lather with a few autocratic words. How is she meant to ignore the now-constant yearning for Malfoy’s touch on her skin? Rather than sating her animalistic passions – having sex with Draco has ignited a veritable forest fire of breathtaking, uncontrollable eroticism.

And the beautiful flowers – is Draco disporting himself with her? Is it simply an odd coincidence that he chose those especial blossoms? Hermione thinks it more likely that Ron picked out the particular colours of his roses because they were the brightest ones available, rather than sending her a deliberate message about enthusiastic passion or jealousy _. I certainly haven’t been unfaithful - if Ron was having a dig about infidelity._

Hermione’s attention is diverted from her worrisome contemplation of her undisciplined lust for Malfoy when a different Slytherin ex-classmate cruises into her line of sight.

Blaise Zabini. Exiting the Auror Division and strutting casually through the Ministry like he runs the multiplex organization in his spare time. _What is it with Snakes and their vainglorious ‘King of the World’ attitudes?_ Hermione sniffs in derision.

Unfortunately, her small gesture catches Blaise’s roving attention; he fluently changes direction to head straight for her.

 _Oh, bugger_. Hermione ducks her head, pretending she’s dropped a pen on the floor; but her ruse proves ineffective. Blaise zeroes in, slanting his tall form against the side of her piddly cubicle with insolent grace.

“Good morning, Hermione,” he hits her with the full force of his winsome smile. He even has dimpled cheeks, Hermione notices, grudgingly conceding Zabini’s undeniable comeliness.

“Good morning, Mr. Zabini,” she politely replies, emphasizing the formal term of address. “What brings you down to our humble level?”. Hermione propels back her chair to gain some much-needed distance; she’s developing a crick in her neck from trying to maintain eye contact.

“Oh, this and that, Hermione,” Blaise lyrically stretches out the syllables of her name as he thoroughly examines her workspace. “Gorgeous flowers… nearly as beautiful as you.”

He favours her with a practised wink.

“Do women actually fall for that poppycock?” _Honestly, does he think I’m a babe in the woods?_ Hermione fumes.

Blaise is undaunted. “Is it your birthday?”

“No. Look, I’m rather busy – and you must have more pressing matters to attend to – “

“Anniversary, then? I thought you finally washed your hands of Ron Weasley last year?” Blaise brushes his long index finger through the scattered rose petals on her desktop; his eyes flick to the consequent trail of debris along the carpet that Marilda inadvertently created when she rushed Ron’s rejected posy into her office. The sunshine-coloured selection is just visible through Marilda’s open door. Hermione stifles a groan.

“Zabini, this is none of your concern – do go away and bother someone else,” Hermione instructs scathingly. She turns her back on the pestilent man and pretends to be engrossed in some dry-as-dust Wizengamot court manuals.

Hermione’s hopes that Blaise will leave her in peace are dashed when he thoughtfully comments, “It seems I’m not the only man to have noticed your abundant charms of late, Hermione… or am I mistaken in my observation that you’ve received two separate flowery tokens today?”

 _Merlin, give me strength!_ Hermione pincers the bridge of her nose in frustration.

“If I tell you, do you promise to immediately leave and go far, far away? Or at the very least, back to Level Five?” Hermione hisses.

“Cross my heart,” Mirth bubbles in his espresso-brown eyes as Blaise slowly drags his index finger across his chest.

Probably deliberately accentuating his well-defined pectorals, Hermione thinks crossly. She schools her face into wide-eyed innocence as she beckons Zabini closer. He complies, bending down until his ear is level with her mouth.

Stage-whispering into Blaise’s left ear, Hermione reveals, “Mind your own fucking business, Zabini. Piss off before I hex you. I’ll grant you a count of five.”

Slipping her wand out of her jacket sleeve (she’d impulsively hidden it there when she’d seen him approaching), Hermione holds it a hair’s-breadth from Blaise’s clean-shaven square chin. Despite her threat, he breaks into a huge grin.

“Five.”

“The little Lioness has claws, hmm?”

“Four.”

“I like a woman with spirit to spare.”

“Three.”

“Nothing sexier than a bit of danger.”

“Two.”

Blaise finally dislodges his muscly body from her cubicle wall, holding up both hands in counterfeit surrender.

“Stand down, Hermione – I'm leaving,” he chuckles as he backs away, turning only when she lowers her wand.

“Enjoy your roses, Golden Girl!” Zabini singsongs, blowing her a cheeky kiss just before he disappears.

 _Smarmy blighter_. Hermione wonders if she should feel ashamed that a not-so-small part of her is disappointed at the missed opportunity to transfigure Blaise into a donkey. Or at least, a horse’s behind.

She indulges in a secret smile and a last caress of the glorious blooms brightening her dull little cubicle… and snaps off a single bar of her Kit Kat before knuckling down to work.

* * *

_Monday 24 February 2003: PM_

The sound of repetitive, rhythmic knocking on the front door of his townhouse finally registers; on the third floor, Draco’s busy hands still as he listens intently, hoping whomever it is has admitted defeat and left the premises.

But no. The banging restarts, more insistent than before. Draco lets fly a few pithy swears as he hurriedly wipes his hands on a clean rag before stuffing it into the back pocket of his worn jeans and clattering down two staircases. It never rains but it pours, he ponders disgruntledly. And it’s extremely unlikely to be Granger at the door – she must have received his card by now and knows to use the Floo. He’d opened the Floo network for her usage after the first night she’d stumbled onto his doorstep… not that Hermione needs to know the specifics of that decision.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

“Keep your bloody hair on!” Draco shouts as he descends the last few steps. He detests being interrupted while he’s working; and he’d been thoroughly engrossed in his employment before the bothersome knocking had infiltrated his deep concentration.

Flinging open the door, Draco’s mien of intolerant peevishness intensifies at the identity of his unexpected visitor.

“You!”

“Hallo, mate,” Blaise Zabini cheerily greets. “What took you so long? Your mother assured me you’d be home at this hour – she reckons you’re more of a shut-in than she is.” Blaise ambles inside without waiting to be asked, his intelligent eyes casing the interior with a few swift looks.

 _What fresh hell is this_? Draco roughly clamps his teeth together as he battles to keep his temper even.

“What are you doing here, Zabini? Which part of ‘owl me’ was unclear yesterday?” Draco spits out the words like venom from a king cobra. “And why have you been in contact with my mother?”

Blaise is undeterred by Draco’s blatant animosity. He meanders into the lounge room and eases himself into his unwilling host’s favourite armchair with a satisfied sigh.

“Had to get your address, didn’t I? So I Floo-called Narcissa, told her how we’d recently reconnected but I’d forgotten to get your contact information. She was delighted to furnish me with the details. Oh, and Theo and I are coming to dinner with you at the Manor this Friday night… as a favour to your lovely mother. To help make things a little less awkward for you, she said.”

Blaise continues, “Found out a couple of interesting titbits at the Ministry today – figured you’d want to hear them quick sticks, so here I am. Gracing you with my illustrious presence and bringing some much-needed brio into your ho-hum world. You’re welcome.” He makes a theatrical swirling gesture with his right hand.

 _Stay calm – you know Zabini loves to shit-stir_. Draco tightens his Occlumency defences and silently counts to five. _No, better make it ten._

“Any chance of a cup of tea, Malfoy? An Earl Grey would hit the spot nicely,” Blaise interrupts Draco’s numeration.

“No. Say your piece, then leave.” Draco remains standing, folding his arms across his chest as he glares at his old friend. _Bold as brass and just as shiny_. 

“Don’t get your wand in a knot, Malfoy. Very well then – since you insist so politely…” Blaise trails off, grinning hugely as a muscle jumps spasmodically along Draco’s clenched jawline.

“I paid a visit to the Auror Division today. Potter himself confirmed that the Ministry is tracking a small gang of Neo-Death Eaters who attempted to stalk and abduct a foreign witch, using a tempered lust-slash-sedative potion. Here’s the kicker – there’s evidence of a practice run on Muggle women, using their computer network… the internet?”

Blaise’s words slam into Draco like a punch to the gut; he calls upon all his cloaking skills to keep his visceral reaction from Zabini’s canny eyes.

“What happened to the women?” Draco’s voice rasps despite his preventative efforts.

“The two Muggle women were double-dating these sleazebags, and they managed to stumble to the bar together and ask for help from waitstaff before they passed out. The only reason the Aurors know about them is that Potter cross-referenced unusual druggings from the British police’s database and found the common ingredients for lust potions, etcetera,” Blaise gravely discloses.

“And the witch?” Draco speaks over the gorge threatening to rise into his throat.

“The victim was French – she was approached at a Parisian bar, then hustled outside to a back alley while she was barely conscious. One of the chefs heard her crying when he came outside for a cigarette; they had her up against the wall. The chef shouted and they Disapparated before he could get a decent look at them.”

Dread slithering through his belly, Draco doesn’t want to ask but must know: “Did they… did they rape her?”

“No. They wanted to terrorize her first; she hazily remembers them saying she’d never see her family again… that they were going to keep her captive and _breed_ her. Fucking pigs.” Blaise’s usually genial pitch is heavy with disgust and fury.

 ** _Breed_** _her? Is that what they had planned for Hermione?_ A hitherto-untapped dark well of ferocious, violent rage floods every cell in Draco’s body. He is grimly glad that Blaise hasn’t lifted his brooding glaze from the floor; Draco is incapable of masking his present state of murderous savagery.

“Potter believes that the incapacitating potion wasn’t yet fine-tuned – that the targeted women were essentially ‘trial runs’. The Auror team followed a few leads to Belgium, but it turned into a dead end. There’s a chance these parasites holed up somewhere to perfect their sick potion.”

Draco frowns. “Hold on – how did you get all this information from _Harry Potter_? And how have these vermin been identified as Neo-Death Eaters?”.

“They told the French witch that ‘her children would carry on the great glory of the Dark Lord’s legacy’. And as for Potter – I bluffed my way into his office this morning and told him I had important information pertaining to his current case.” Blaise looks obnoxiously pleased with his ingenuity.

“What the actual fuck, Zabini! You’ve dropped me right in it already, haven’t you?” Draco’s hands are involuntarily convulsing with the urge to throttle Zabini where he sits.

“No – but I have promised Potter that my witness will meet with him by the end of the week,” Blaise cautiously comes clean. Rearing back in alarm, he hastily placates, “Come on, mate – you were always going to have to get the Ministry involved! I’ve just accelerated the process a smidgeon.”

 _Son of a Bludger!_ Foregoing counting to control his temper, Draco instead visualizes the grisly cells of Azkaban. His short stay at the infamous wizard prison whilst awaiting trial was long enough to have him vow to never return to the ghastly penitentiary.

“Are you done?” he barks at Zabini.

“Short on gratitude as well as temper?” Blaise unwisely pokes the bear.

“Get out. Now.” Hawthorn wand in hand, Draco runs a swift inventory of all the spells he knows that can hurt Zabini without leaving him permanently scarred or Transfigured.

 _Melofors_? No. A pumpkin-headed Blaise is sure to attract negative attention from his neighbours.

 _Engorgio Skullus_? Same issue – and Zabini is fat-headed enough already.

Draco has finally settled on _Steleus_ (continuous involuntary sneezes) when Blaise languidly rises to his feet and paces to the front door. 

“It’s funny, Malfoy – you aren’t the first person to threaten me with a wand today,” Blaise muses, ostentatiously straightening the lapels of his charcoal robes. “Hermione Granger held one to my chin this morning, after I asked about the two floral offerings on her desk.”

“Two?” Draco blurts loudly, before he can stop himself.

“Mmm. A pink bunch, and a gargantuan yellow and orange bouquet that she gave away to her manager.”

Blaise grins impishly as he adds, “She’s a beautiful woman – and as feisty as a pillowcase stuffed with garden gnomes. I’m thinking of throwing my hat into the ring; I enjoyed our little flirtation this morning.”

“ **LEAVE HER THE HELL ALONE** ,” Draco presses his left forearm into Blaise’s corded neck in a flash, snarling the words through gritted teeth.

Despite the strong arm impeding his airway, Blaise laughs uproariously. “I knew it! Still obsessed with Granger, hmm? After all this time…” Blaise marvels, slowly shaking his head in an approximation of benign pity.

Breathing harshly and blinking rapidly, Draco drops his arm and steps away. “You’re delusional, Zabini. I’ve no idea what you mean.” He infuses his denial with as much scorn as he can muster.

“Leave it out, Draco – you were on Hermione’s every move at Hogwarts like bowtruckles on Doxy eggs,” Blaise jeers. “I seriously considered stealing a lock of her voluminous hair and gifting it to you for your birthday one year… but I decided not to enable your self-deceitful fixation.” He tsk-tsks like a disappointed parent. “Will you _ever_ get your shit together, one wonders?”.

“It’s amazing how your lips are moving while you’re talking out your arse,” Draco glacially responds. “The sole point I was making is that Granger is far too astute to fall for your bollocksy brand of bullshit.”

He pushes Zabini through the front door, ignoring Blaise’s continuing cackles. “Decline Friday’s dinner invitation and forget where I live. Off you fuck.”

Succumbing to his anger and humiliation, Draco slams the door shut and secures the lock, Blaise’s smothered laughter still ringing in his reddened ears. He thumps his back irately against the closed portal and slides to the floor.

_Why has my life become such a sodding circus? Complete with clowns and fortune-tellers?_

Draco allows himself five minutes to wallow in self-pity before he clambers to his feet and returns to work.

 _I should have made the townhouse Unplottable._ _To Muggles and wizards alike_ , Draco bellyaches as he slowly ascends the stairs.


	14. Tumult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to krankykittie.  
> Thank you for coining the phrase 'Hurricane Hermione', and giving me permission to use it.
> 
> **Warning: this chapter contains explicit sexual content**

__

_Wednesday 26 February 2003: PM_

Hermione ducks her head before stepping gingerly out of Draco’s marble-bordered fireplace, untucking her elbows with a sigh of relief. Floo transports are not exactly comfortable – but a vast improvement on flying broomsticks, in her (admittedly biased) opinion.

She takes a moment to gaze about the spacious lounge room. It is painted in a mid-palette cyanic grey, furnished with a three-seater powder-blue lowline couch and two matching retro Danish armchairs in a similar hue. The wall to Hermione’s left is mostly high windows, judging by the multiple dark oyster curtains that are currently drawn against the winter gloom.

The opposite wall boasts white floor-to-ceiling bookcases; Hermione’s feet are automatically drawn toward the allure of book-crammed shelves when Draco prowls through the open door from the hallway, a white tea towel slung over one shoulder.

“Hi,” Hermione greets the tall blond, making a tentative, awkward half-wave with her free hand; the other is clutching her ebony work satchel/overnight bag. “I was just about to –“

Her next words are unceremoniously quelled by Draco’s hot mouth devouring her own as he urgently plunges his hands beneath her unbuttoned greatcoat and onto her hips, moving his right palm ceaselessly over the curves of her hipbone and waist as his left hand glides upward to anchor at the base of her braid, holding Hermione’s head steady for his plundering lips.

Malfoy pillages her parted mouth with an intoxicating amalgamation of expert control and savage frenzy; Hermione’s satchel falls from her nerveless hold without conscious thought. She whimpers in wanton pleasure as she offers the slim column of her throat to Draco, grappling at his biceps and shoulders before her hands find purchase in his silky, pearl-white pelage.

The blazing sensations evoked by Draco’s fiery lips and tongue and fingers are all too much, yet not enough; Hermione woozily realizes that her wondrous memories of the epic night she’d spent with Draco were not exaggerated by time and distance. If anything – they were dulled.

Hermione’s hands are clawed into the collar of Draco’s emerald twill cotton shirt and she is giving serious contemplation to ripping off all the buttons in one fell swoop when Draco’s mouth slowly disengages, grazing softer kisses across her jawline and cheekbones, before he pulls away entirely.

“That’s the oven timer,” Malfoy husks. Dazzled, Hermione is gratified to note that Draco appears almost as titillated as she feels. His dilated pupils and irregular breaths betray his arousal, although he is quickly recovering his customary poise.

“Come – you must be hungry,” Draco lithely bends to retrieve Hermione’s discarded bag, before guiding her to proceed him out of the lounge room. “I’ve made Salina chicken casserole with lemony couscous… have you tried it before?”.

“Uh… no, no I haven’t,” Hermione mutters _. I really must learn to emulate Malfoy’s trick of rapid emotional downshifting before I utterly embarrass myself_ , she crabs. The now-familiar light pressure of Draco’s hand at the small of her back is enough to make her knees waver again. _Get a grip, twit._

He leads her past the granite-topped kitchen island to the far end of the room, pulling out one of the Swedish-inspired chairs from the pale ash rectangular wooden table. Hermione silently allows Draco to rid her of her pea coat and plum suit jacket; he folds and drapes them over one of the unused chairs, lodging her satchel on the same seat before returning to nudge her chair closer to the table.

The overhead ribbed fabric white lampshade casts a warm glow across the dining area; the ivory curtains in here are half-drawn, allowing a glimpse of a shadowy, high-walled back garden. Hermione’s attention diverts at Draco’s yelped oath.

“Merlin’s balls!” He clumsily finagles a large Dutch oven onto the stovetop with the stretched white tea towel, before slamming on the cold tap and sticking his burnt right fingertips under the running water. Hermione rushes from her chair to assist.

“Here, let me have a look,” she carefully pulls his injured digits into her own hands. The skin on Draco’s index and middle fingers is pinkish but unblistered.

“You’ll live,” Hermione jokes. She impetuously raises his hand to her mouth and imparts a quick kiss to each sore finger, before returning them to the cool stream beneath the tap. “There – all better.”

“Keep them under the water until the sting eases,” Hermione advises, missing the odd look Draco gives her as she turns to deal with the heavy cast-iron cooking pot. “Serves you right for not using oven mitts, Malfoy,” she teases. “Where do you keep them?”

“I don’t have any – the tea towels do the job,” Draco gruffly maintains. He turns off the tap and wipes his hands dry on a square of paper towel.

“Except for when they don’t… like now?” Hermione can’t resist baiting. She makes do with wrapping two tea towels around the hot handles and carefully transfers the casserole to the table, settling it on the trivet. Draco follows, placing a bowl of fluffy couscous and a basket of fresh, crusty bread slices on either side. Turning back to her chair, Hermione’s momentum is arrested by Draco’s featherlight sweep of her braid tail from her neck; he deliberately plants a row of equidistant kisses along the sensitive side of her throat.

“Thank you,” Draco breathes into her ear. The kiss and the whisper create a tingle of goosebumps that prickle down to Hermione’s toes before zinging back to the crown of her skull. He moves to sit catty-corner beside her, filling her glass, then his, from the jug of water already at table.

“May I serve you?” he formally enquires.

Hermione nods, mutely handing Draco her plain white plate. “Help yourself to the bread and butter,” Malfoy adds, indicating with a jut of his sharp chin to the small dish bearing glistening yellow pats. She complies, then props her head on her hands to raptly observe Draco gracefully wielding ladles and tongs to pile her plate high with the citrusy steamed semolina balls, topped with fragrant chicken and vegetable casserole. 

The appetizing aroma of baked chicken, aubergines, tomatoes and herbs smells heavenly; Hermione inhales appreciatively as her covetous stomach audibly rumbles.

Draco flashes a quick grin as Hermione apologizes. “Sorry… it’s been a long day. And this looks and smells divine,” Hermione takes back her heaped plate with relish. “Thank you, Malfoy. You don’t have to do this, you know,” she adds as a puzzled afterthought.

“Do what? Eat dinner?” Draco retorts. “I beg to differ, Granger.” His sly tone advertises his deliberate obtuseness.

“Ha-ha. I meant that you don’t need to keep feeding me, of course,” Hermione elaborates. “This is the fourth meal you’ve treated me to since we… met again,” she lamely finishes.

“I prefer to think of our reunion as ‘Hurricane Hermione’ making landfall in St John’s Wood,” Draco japes, chuckling as her forehead instantly puckers in pique.

He forestalls her tetchy rebuttal. “Pax, Granger – do you hear me complaining? To answer your question… I’m providing you with suitable nourishment to ensure you have sufficient energy for our libidinous activities,” Draco purrs suggestively.

Hermione pounces on the conversational opening. “Mmm… is that right? I suppose it does explain Monday morning’s Kit Kat… But why did you include the exquisite flowers, Malfoy? And their _interesting_ message?”.

 _That should wipe the smile off your handsome face_. Hermione leans back slightly, nipping the inside of her cheeks to keep from displaying her smugness.

Draco unhurriedly raises his water glass, partaking in a lengthy sip. He holds Hermione’s eyes as he facilely asks, “Which message? Was the card I included somehow cryptic?”. He motions to her temporarily ignored meal. “I thought you were hungry?”.

Spiking a pine nut onto her forkful of chicken and aubergine, Hermione chews it with relish, ensuring she has swallowed every morsel before she replies.

“Your note was crystal clear – but my supervisor was kind enough to share her knowledge of floriography with me.” Hermione is greatly enjoying this cat-and-mouse dialogue.

“Floriography?’ Draco echoes. All innocence, and dove-grey eyes.

_As if the word didn’t roll off his tongue as smooth as silk._

“The language of flowers. Here’s the fascinating part: the bouquet you sent me translates as, ‘Your beautiful eyes have cast a spell of _flagrant_ desire on me’. An odd coincidence… wouldn’t you agree?”.

Hermione doesn’t allow Draco to break eye contact; she is determined to overcome his skilled Occlumency in this instance.

Draco holds her stare, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “A mite cheesy, don’t you think? Do you honestly believe that is what I intended, Granger?”. He snickers softly as he lowers his eyes to concentrate on his food.

“You haven’t explained why you sent me the posy,” Hermione insists. She is sorely disappointed that she has failed to ‘read’ Draco again.

“Remember our agreement from Saturday brunch? An answer for a kiss?” Draco prompts.

Hermione scoffs, “You want a kiss for a basic explanation?”. Her anger about Malfoy possibly playing veiled emotional games threatens to burble over. She makes a conscious effort to cut her chicken less forcefully.

“No. I want a kiss because I savour the lushness of your sweet mouth beneath mine,” Draco surprises her. “And because it satisfies my craving to dominate you.. as it fulfils your unarticulated desire to submit to me. Physically.”

Narrowly avoiding choking on her mouthful of couscous, Hermione’s eyes dart upward. Draco’s expression is ablaze with lascivious yearning, his eyes roaming over her face as though he has been tasked with sculpting it from memory alone.

 _No one has ever looked at me like this before_ , Hermione marvels. _As though I am the human embodiment of Aphrodite. I could really get used to this._

And as for Malfoy’s bold assertion: Hermione is equally thrilled and apprehensive that he is absolutely correct. The explicit, raunchy visuals that have rampaged through her over-active brain since Saturday night storm through her mind. Draco holding her hands captive above her head. Murmuring all manner of hot, filthy intentions (preferably in French) as he maps every inch of her quivering body… excruciatingly slowly. Bending her over the nearest available surface and ruthlessly stripping her of clothing, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers as she eagerly thrusts back for his possession…

“I agree! To giving you a kiss,” Hermione sputters, desperate to break the erotic sorcery Draco has magicked with a few evocative sentences. _And you call yourself a witch – pathetic_. She busies her hands with her cutlery, avoiding Malfoy’s discerning regard for as long as possible.

His next words prove bewildering. “I never said _you_ were to bequeath the kisses,” Draco corrects. “However, I will collect that kiss a little later.”

Frowning, Hermione calls to mind the pertinent negotiation. Damn him, he’s right: the extent of their agreed-upon specificity was ‘just a kiss for an answer’. _You sneaky little ferret_.

“I bet you’re cursing my craftiness right now,” Draco guesses; Hermione gawks at his shrewdness. “But a deal is a deal, _ma ch_ _érie_.”

 _Considering the way you’ve been eye-shagging me - I believe it’s a win/win bargain_. Hermione is careful not to let that complacent conclusion exhibit on her face. She swallows a snigger with her next swig of water.

“How was your day, Malfoy?” Hermione artlessly queries. The topic isn’t solely misdirection; she is genuinely interested as to what goes on in Draco’s mysterious current-day existence.

Draco waits a beat before responding, suspicion flickering across his countenance. Hermione continues to enjoy her meal as she patiently awaits his rejoinder.

“My day was… productive,” is all he offers. “How was yours? Is working at the Ministry everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?”.

Hermione chooses to ignore the faint taint of mockery inherent in his words. “It’s boring,” she sighs. “I’m hankering to sink my teeth into something substantial. Something bigger than cross-referencing archaic Wizengamot procedures or rewriting prosecution strategies without a shred of credit for same. Or the worst part – being trotted out like a dancing pony when the Ministry decides it needs to impress visiting dignitaries.” She stops, tardily realizing she has revealed more of her discontent than she intended.

“Leave, then. You could have any job you wanted, I’d wager,” Draco observes.

“I can’t just quit, Malfoy – I’ve worked towards this career since I left Hogwarts. Besides, I factored in some necessary stagnation in my ten-year plan.” _That sounded better in my head_ , Hermione cringes.

“Of _course_ you have a ten-year plan,” Draco rolls his eyes ceiling-ward. “And as for ‘factoring in some necessary stagnation’ – screw that, _sideways_. You’re not a pond. Is this really what you want for your life? Did your eleven-year-old self step off the Hogwarts Express for the first time and build castles in the air about salaried drudgery in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic?”. His voice is ripe with nettled scorn.

Stung by the inescapable truth of his accusations, Hermione struggles to mask her hurt. She parts her mouth to defend herself, but Draco’s next words have her closing it with a hard snap.

“You deserve so much more than reluctantly assuming the empty role of the Ministry’s most famous figurehead. They won’t ever cede any real power. They’ll keep patting you on the head and promising your day will come.”

He leans in until their foreheads are almost touching. “Do whatever makes you happy, Granger. Don’t waste your life pleasing other people; they’ll never be satisfied, and you’ll be lousy with regret and bitterness. It frustrates me beyond belief that the ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ can’t see how extraordinary she is.”

Draco sharply kicks back his chair and rises, gathering his plate and cutlery in stony silence before he stiffly walks to the sink.

Stunned by his vehemence, Hermione remains motionless in her seat for a handful of beats, watching Draco shuttle between the table, kitchen island and fridge. He packs up the leftover foods with an economy of movement and abundance of grace, working quickly until the only items remaining on the table are her plate, silverware, and tumbler. He hasn’t glanced her way since he bent his pallid head to her curly one.

To say he’s hit a nerve is an understatement; Hermione had promised herself (not four days past) that she’d stop being a coward and start living a life of her own choosing. To what end? To rot away in her stifling cubicle in an organization that refuses to recognize her capabilities and ambition?

_And why does Draco seem personally affronted by my lily-livered blindness? He’s as cross as two sticks whenever he talks about my perceived ‘unfulfilled potential’._

“How do you manage to turn an insult into a compliment so cleverly, Malfoy?” Hermione muses rhetorically. “Why do you express strong opinions about how I’m apparently ‘wasting my life’, anyway?”. Another thought strikes as her aggravation and tumult surge.

“And you _still_ haven’t told me why you sent those ruddy flowers on Monday!” She shoves back her own chair with a satisfying screech, snatching up her tableware and yielding to the childish impulse to clomp over to the sink.

The water sprays wildly as she turns on the tap a shade too vigorously. Hermione bats at the errant droplets on her beige blouse with a shaky hand.

“Leave that, Granger. You’re not here to do the dishes,” Draco commands. He steps behind to herd her flush against the sink cupboard, her hips buttressed by his lean fingers. Hermione pretends she is unaffected by his proximity, stubbornly clinging to her dirty plate.

“I sent you the bouquet because I walked past a florist in Diagon Alley on Sunday… and they made me think of you,” Draco’s unusually gravelly tone puffs against her braided hair. He traces the indentation of her waist before skimming up her elbows and upper arms to cup her shoulders, thumbs making half-moons against the fabric of her shirt.

Hermione’s head drops forward without conscious volition. _Damn his nimble fingers, hard body, and irresistible scent… it’s pheromones. It must be pheromones._

“As to your other quizzing point: I despise myself for contributing to your poor self-esteem. I was an utter bastard to you at school… I was a nasty bully and a conceited prat who thought the sun shone out of his own bum, and it wasn’t until I experienced being bullied myself that I realized the damage my unrelenting arseholery had effected.”

Hermione cannot help herself. “I don’t think ‘arseholery’ is a proper word, Malfoy.”

Draco sighs, but his tone is lighter as he admonishes, “Shush, Granger – your pedantry is ruining my lofty apology.”

“Oh, is that what that was? Funny, I didn’t hear you speak the words ‘I’ or ‘am’ or ‘sorry’,” Hermione snarks back, glad he can’t see the chuffed smile on her face.

“I. Am. Sorry.” Before Hermione can react, Draco steps back, grips her hips again and smoothly spins her round to face him. His graphite eyes are scintillant with sincerity and remorse. “I’m sorry.” He shapes the phrase against her mouth before slanting his lips across hers.

Pushing up eagerly, Hermione matches Draco kiss for hungry kiss. “Are you claiming the reward for your answer, Malfoy?” she manages to exclaim in between heady clinches.

Draco bites open-mouthed caresses down her supple neck, fingers working dexterously to unbutton her blouse. “With interest added, _mon trésor_ ,” he hums into the hollow of her throat.

“Ooh, yes, that – more French, _s'il te plait_ ,” Hermione pants, half-delirious as Draco nips at the now-exposed mounds of her breasts, delicately scraping his teeth across her sensitive skin as he drags her biscotti-coloured bra down until her nipples spring free.

“ _Bien sûr, ma choupette_ ,” Draco croons, his tweaking hands now replacing his mouth on her breasts as he kneels before her to circle her touchy belly button with his tongue.

Giggling helplessly, Hermione protects her navel with her right hand as she wonders aloud, “’ _Ma choupette’_? What does that mean?”.

She feels Draco laugh softly against her lower abdomen; he’s taken advantage of her ticklishness to unclip and unzip her plum cigarette pants and pull them to her knees. His fingers hook beneath her knickers as he tilts up his head and grins cheekily into her flushed face.

“The English translation is ‘my little cabbage’,” Draco winks as her knickers unceremoniously join her trousers, bunching around her knees.

“Cabbage?!?” Hermione wheezes. “I’m a _cabbage_?”

Draco glides his hands back up her quavering thighs, making her gasp as he brushes his fingertips along the inner creases of her upper legs.

He strokes Hermione’s hypersensitive skin in ever-decreasing rings as he prompts, “Don’t you find cruciferous vegetables sexy, Granger?”

“Not particularly,” Hermione strengthens her white-knuckled grip on the metal lip of the sink behind her; her knees are as wobbly as blancmange, thanks to Draco’s skilled ministrations.

“Unacceptable, Granger,” Draco remonstrates, swiftly withdrawing his hands from her person. “I had intended to claim my kiss… here – “ he caresses her soft, damp, penny-brown curls with his index finger as she whimpers – “but only if you can list all the Cruciferae you know. I’ll translate them to French for you. No extra charge.”

He leans back onto his haunches. “Well?”

“Cauliflower!” Hermione practically hollers.

“ _Choufleur_.” Malfoy teases with light, exploratory passes of his digits through her sex. “ _Un début prometteur, continuez._ Go on,” and he nudges her curls apart with his thumbs.

“Broccoli.” _Is this technically torture? It is, isn’t it?_ Hermione resentfully decides that she will have her revenge on the cruel, sexy beast before the week is out.

“ _Brocoli_. You’ll have to lift your game, Granger.” Draco slowly eases his left index finger inside her, hissing in satisfaction as she bears down, moaning deliriously. “More?”.

Nodding rapidly, Hermione closes her eyes in bliss as Malfoy slides his fingers up to the special knot of nerves on her inner front wall, rubbing tenderly. He licks a thin stripe through her exposed outer lips as she arches her back, desperate for more contact.

“Brussel sprouts… kale, horseradish, kohlrabi… watercress…” Hermione wails the last as Draco hotly and firmly kisses her quim, sucking and biting ever-so-softly around her clitoris.

She sobs in frustration as Draco briefly pulls away, pupils blown dark with his own arousal as he raggedly translates, “ _Choux de Bruxelles, chou kale, Raifort, chou-rave, cresson… Excellent, ma petite savante_.” He fervently returns to mouthing and stroking Hermione to new heights of carnality, increasing the pressure of his mobile lips and teeth and tongue as she abandons herself to pure sensation. Draco’s fingers are tunnelling in and out of her now, lingering on that singular band of tissue on every upstroke.

When she comes, she blasts apart like a supernova: a luminous stellar explosion that blows her nerve cells into the stratosphere, flung far from sight and sound and consciousness. Hermione slips back into herself in immeasurable increments, vaguely aware that Draco is caged protectively around her euphoric, stuporous form. He has refastened most of her dishevelled attire at some point and is murmuring quietly in French as he effortlessly hoists her into his arms.

“ _Allons se coucher_ , Granger. _Tu es épuisée, ma petite lionne_. I’ve got you.” Hermione curls her hand around his strong neck as Malfoy walks them out of the kitchen/dining room, turning off the lights for the downstairs areas before he climbs the stairs.

She keeps her eyes closed as Draco lays her down atop his bed, flipping back the covers before he begins to ease off her shoes and clothing. Hermione struggles to sit upright as it dawns on her that she is currently impersonating a sea slug, but with fewer brain cells. Draco benignly pushes her back onto the mattress, ignoring her mumbled protestations as he rapidly divests her of the rest of her garments.

Her ears faintly discern the slithering sound of Draco shucking off his own clothes, before the bed dips and he rolls her into the little spoon position, dragging the bedlinens beneath her chin.

“ _Fais de beaux rêves_ , Granger.”

Draco’s warm body folded around her drowsy one sends Hermione to sleep within seconds.

* * *

_Thursday 27 February: AM_

“No – don’t – don’t –“ Hermione is startled awake by Draco’s tortured low moan. The townhouse bedroom remains enshrouded in darkness; it must still be night, Hermione fuzzily concludes.

Draco cries out again, a haunting, wordless note that makes her hackles rise in sympathetic fear.

“Malfoy?” Hermione whispers, tentatively stretching out her hand. She encounters only air and linens; Draco must be squeezed onto the farthest edge of the bed or has fallen off it onto the floor. Panicking, Hermione scratches across the bedside chest of drawers until she finally locates the lamp, hurriedly clicking it on.

Her tender heart pinches as she spies Draco, compressed into a shuddering ball with his head jammed against the topmost corner of the bed. Panic turns to horror as she kneels beside him and sees that his right hand is clawing bloody furrows into his left forearm. Targeting the Dark Mark.

“Oh, Malfoy, no – please stop,” Hermione battles to keep her voice free of her dread. She slips her small hand around Draco’s right wrist, tugging it clear of his bloodied skin with a struggle. His blunt nails are already limned in crimson.

“Malfoy, please wake up. It’s just a bad dream, I promise.” Hermione hugs his shivering body as best she can, bracketing his left wrist with her spare hand. Draco’s skin is ice-cold and dimpled with goosebumps. His suffering is palpable.

Crooning softly, Hermione rubs her cheek against his rigid back in soothing passes. “It’s alright – you’re OK,” she repeats the phrase for interminable moments until she finally senses Draco juddering back to wakefulness. Some of the stiffness leaves his spine and his legs uncurl.

Groggily, Draco turns his head, his eyes widening as Hermione smiles tremulously at his ashen face.

“It’s OK, Malfoy. You had a nightmare, but you’re alright,” Hermione reassures him. His bloodless complexion and terrified eyes are an awful reminder of how Draco had looked back in Sixth year: hunted and hopeless. Burdened. Cursed.

Draco looks down at her hands bracing his wrists; he emits an appalled gasp at the sight of his torn skin and bloodied nails, jolting free of Hermione’s light hold and scrambling upright against the padded fabric bedhead. He stares at her in consternation.

“Wait, wait – I’ll get a warm flannel and your first aid kit,” Hermione slides from the bed and darts into the bathroom, correctly guessing that the kit is stored beneath the vanity.

Grabbing the small plastic box with the red cross emblazoned on its front, she quickly runs a flannel square beneath the hot tap until it is warm, then wrings it down to dampness. Hermione runs back to the bedroom to kneel beside Draco. He rears back as she tries to capture his left arm.

“No, don’t - don’t touch it! I don’t want you to touch it,” Draco croaks in a painful whisper.

“I swear I won’t hurt you. Please, let me clean and bandage it.” Hermione cajoles, winking away tears. Draco’s vulnerability is turning her inside out.

Draco shakes his head furiously, sweaty platinum strands whipping his face as he cradles his injured forearm against his bare chest, smearing blood against his heaving sternum. “You should leave. I could have harmed you, Granger.” His expression is agonized as he yells, “Get out! Just go!”.

Hermione steadfastly ignores his directives, busily sorting through the first aid box to prepare antiseptic lotion, sterile wipes, and gauze.

“No. You’re being silly and dramatic, and you can’t rid yourself of me that easily, Malfoy,” she adopts a firm, no-nonsense tone in response to his turbulent agitation. “Now give me your arm, or I’ll Petrify you.”

“You wouldn’t bloody dare,” Draco sullenly mutters. “You don’t even have your wand handy.”

“What, you think I can’t work wandlessly? I’m the Brightest Witch of My Age, and a Golden Girl to boot,” Hermione jests. “I can have you clucking like a chicken and roosting on the bedhead before you can crow ‘Buff Orpington!’”.

“Bullshit, Granger.” But Draco unfolds his left arm with a scowl and reluctantly turns it palm-up for her inspection.

Dabbing the damp washer cautiously at the angry red stripes scored down Draco’s forearm, Hermione is relieved when the scratches are revealed as primarily superficial, and the blood has already begun to coagulate. Draco stares at his corrupted Dark Mark with revulsed loathing; his fingers twitch in her loose clasp. Hermione finishes cleaning the shallow gouges, drying them with sterile wipes and then applying blobs of antiseptic lotion, before securely wrapping his arm in gauze and fastening the band with a small clip.

Before she releases his limb, Hermione picks up the flannel and swabs the dried bloody smudges from his chest, then uses it to scrub clean the nails of his right hand.

“Thanks,” and Draco jerks out of reach, pulling his knees to his chest and fixing his brooding gaze on a microscopic dot of blood marring the pristine white of the bottom sheet.

Hermione sighs. _He’s reverted to the Stoic Slytherin façade faster than I’d anticipated._

Shivering now that her adrenaline is crashing, Hermione remembers that she is naked; she gave no thought to her nudity during this little crisis.

“I’ll just grab a glass of water, Malfoy,” and she slips off the bed again, taken aback as Draco pulls her back down.

“I’ll get it. You’re cold – hop back into bed,” and he tugs the duvet over her chilled body before striding to the bathroom in a few lanky steps. The tap runs; Draco returns within the minute, pushing the half-full glass at her as Hermione sits up, bedcovers tucked beneath her armpits.

“Drink,” and he holds the glass uncompromisingly to her parched lips.

“Thank you,” Hermione cups the glass and sips, grateful for the hydration. She places the glass on his bedside drawers and pats the space beside her.

“Want to tell me what that was all about? Or are you going to try to punt me again?”

“No,” Draco clips. “To both.”

Hermione eyes him sceptically as he burrows beneath the covers until just the top of his silky blond head is visible; he turns on his side to face away from her.

“Malfoy. You can talk to me. I won’t judge you.”

“I had a nightmare – big deal,” his scathing reply is muffled by layers of fabric. Hermione scooches down the bed and yanks Draco onto his back, draping herself over him as he growls in protest.

“Get off me, woman – you’re freezing,” Draco grouches.

“You can warm me up,” Hermione teases, chafing her feet on his lateral shins.

“Hey!” Draco’s arms encircle her as she lays her head against his heart; it is still beating too fast but is stabilizing. Rather than dislodge her, Draco tentatively glides his big hands down her sleek spine.

Hermione’s reaction is to pepper closed-mouth kisses along Draco’s collarbone; he groans a little, shifting as her caresses stir his manhood to wakefulness. She lifts her head, capturing his intense gaze as she licks delicately at his puckered nipple.

Draco rolls them onto their sides, guiding her head up to his with his right index finger. His lips meet hers sweetly; they swap lazy smooches… giving and receiving comfort in equal measure. Their hips align to float together before drifting apart, notching in all the right places for a slow, dulcet build-up.

They touch each other incessantly, compulsively; butterfly strokes that firm as their breathing quickens. Hermione fancies that their magical cores are flittering around each other, brushing together with tingling wings and shared energies. She smiles against Draco’s mouth at her own silliness. Whatever this is, it is synchronous and special and something to be savoured in the moment.

Hermione wraps her left leg around Draco’s right hip, urging him into her willing warmth; he needs no further encouragement, pressing deliciously closer. Their eyes open in unison and stay connected as they join together, rocking in an ageless, intimate rhythm. Neither looks away as they leisurely coax each other to their pinnacles. Eyes, lips, hands connect… channelling deep bliss back and forth, under and over their skin and bones until it threatens to spill into the ether.

They tip together, each spasm and pulse triggering a corresponding reaction in the other’s body; Hermione doesn’t know she is leaking silent, rapturous tears until Draco kisses them from her cheeks. They are both vibrating with aftershock, foreheads gently pressed together, bodies twined.

Contact eventually breaks when Draco slips from Hermione’s enervated body with a quiet sigh. He twists onto his side with his back to her again but tows her left hand to curl against his chest. Hermione uncertainly assumes the role of big spoon, gingerly settling closer.

Hand creeping into Draco’s satiny silvered hair, Hermione lightly rakes upwards into his skull, stilling as he groans.

“Malfoy… is this alright?” she worries.

Draco waits for a handful of seconds before he acknowledges, “It’s tolerable.” He exposes his reluctant concession as a glaring falsehood by eagerly pushing his head back against her ruffling fingers. Hermione continues to pet his locks until he falls asleep, his breathing regular and untroubled.

Snuggling closer, Hermione lets her heavy eyelids close.

“Sweeter dreams, Malfoy,” she wishes for the complicated man slumbering beside her. The lamp remains lit; she doesn’t bother to switch it off.

Let the light chase away the darkness for the rest of the night.

* * *

The flashback nightmare that Draco suffers is described in full in this ficlet: 

[Draco's nightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25608640)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations:  
> Mon trésor = my treasure.  
> s'il te plait = please.  
> Bien sûr, ma choupette = Of course, my little cabbage.  
> Choufleur = Cauliflower.  
> Un début prometteur, continuez = A promising start, continue.  
> Brocoli = broccoli.  
> Choux de Bruxelles, chou kale, Raifort, chou-rave, cresson = Brussels sprouts, kale, horseradish, kohlrabi, watercress.  
> Excellent, ma petite savante = Excellent, my little scholar.  
> Allons se coucher, Granger. Tu es épuisée, ma petite lionne = Let's go to bed, Granger. You are exhausted, my little lioness.  
> Fais de beaux rêves = Sweet dreams.


	15. Exposition

__

_Thursday 27 February 2003: AM_

The untied peacock-blue woollen robe flaps briskly about Draco’s bare calves as he hustles down the stairs, the sash trailing behind him like a tail. He’d awoken from a dreamless, recuperative slumber a few minutes ago, yawning and stretching comfortably until he’d caught sight of the white gauze sheathing his left forearm.

The humiliating events in the wee hours of the previous night had deluged his consciousness like a savage summer hailstorm. The heinous nightmare; waking up bloodied and disoriented; Hermione refusing to heed his mandate to leave. Her skilled, pragmatic handling of his self-inflicted abrasions; the soothing comfort and healing pleasure Hermione had generously gifted with her willing, warm, beautiful body.

The memory of their tranquil, beatific coupling had triggered Draco to instinctively reach out to touch her again – but her side of the bed had been empty and cold. He’d roughly scrubbed at his face with both hands, trying to dispel the disquieting notion that Granger should be next to him when he woke up. Or that the far side of the big bed rightly belongs to her now.

Draco had blamed that mawkish reaction on residual nightmare hangover; it hadn’t stopped him from bolting up to don his fitted boxer shorts and robe and departing the bedroom in search of Hermione. On the double. 

Stepping off the final stair, Draco bypasses the alluring smell of freshly-brewed coffee coming from his kitchen and instead turns to the right to enter the lounge room.

He studiously ignores the sense of relief he feels when he spots Hermione sitting cross-legged in front of his wall of bookshelves, a dozen or so tomes stacked neatly beside her. She is engrossed in leafing through a thick paperback and doesn’t react to his entrance.

 _Lost to the world, as usual. Typical of the brainy little bookworm._ Draco is unaware of the indulgent smile wreathing his face as he watches Granger from the doorway. It is only when he advances to within a few feet of her position that Hermione jolts and swivels to face him.

“Oh! Um, good morning,” she skates her free hand across the rumpled skirt of her teal satin wrap-around dress, pushing it down over her knees, faint colour staining her high cheekbones. “I’ll put these back – I was just having a quick peek –“

“Relax, Granger – I’m not Madam Pince, hounding you out of the library on the dot of eight o’clock,” Draco interrupts, lithely sinking onto the floor to sit tailor-style, mirroring Hermione’s pose. “Take as many books as you’d like.”

“Oh, no… I was just looking,” Hermione demurs confusedly; but she casts a covetous glance at the tidy pile beside her and worshipfully traces the spine of the book in her lap.

“Which do you have there?” Draco leans forward to identify the title. “’The Earthsea Quartet’? Of course. Magic, danger and adventures galore… that could be your motto, Granger,” he teases lightly.

“Don’t forget the dragons,” Hermione ripostes in return, a small smile playing around the corners of her cherry-pink mouth. Her earlier shyness has dissipated, replaced by a familiar air of bookish zeal. “Le Guin is all about the dragons… _Draco_ ,” she smiles at her goofy pun.

Hearing his Christian name fall from Hermione’s lips (for the first time ever?) knocks Draco about like a mid-air blow from a Bludger. He experiences the same sensation of runaway dizziness, as though he’s lost control of his broomstick and is falling from a great height; he sucks down a deep breath and constricts his hands into fists as he strives to recover his composure.

 _It’s weird, that’s all. Discordant with our long-established routine of trading caustic snarks. Of course it’s jarring to hear her call me ‘Draco’_. _An aberration that won’t be repeated_ , he assures himself.

Fortunately, Granger hasn’t witnessed any of Draco’s odd turmoil; her attention is concentrated on the four-part paperback in her hands. She flips it open to the page her index finger has been marking.

“I read ‘Tehanu’ just before I went away to Hogwarts for First Year,” Hermione remarks. “I was enthralled with this particular passage –“ she hesitates, peering at Draco from beneath her long lashes. “Never mind,” she closes the book with a soft thud.

“Read it out – I’d like to hear it,” Draco encourages. “Please.” He unfurls his hands against his folded knees.

Hermione shrugs uncertainly but reopens the novel at Draco’s nod. He keeps his pewter orbs focused on her bonny face as she begins to read aloud. Her recital is melodious, clear, and captivating.

“ _’I go back into the dark! Before the moon I was. No one knows, no one can say what I am, what a woman is, a woman of power, a woman’s power, deeper than the roots of trees, deeper than the roots of islands, older than the Making, older than the moon. Who dares ask questions of the dark? Who’ll ask the dark its name?_ ’”. Her voice catches a little on the last sentence; she keeps her gaze on the printed page, as still as a mouse.

Melancholy eddies around them. Hermione forces out a self-deprecating laugh.

“Just a silly little kid, determined to stare into the dark and ask its name.” She sits the book atop the stack.

“Le Guin is considered anti-feminist by many,” she muses, sinking an incisor into her lower lip. “Strictly gendered; female magic doled out as leftovers. But I always feel empowered when I read her works.” She shrugs again, countenance brightening and shoulders straightening.

Hermione smiles affably at Draco, cocking her head to the side. “How are you feeling, Malfoy? After… last night?” she adds, her attention shifting to his bandaged arm.

“I’m well,” Draco replies. “Thank you. For helping me. With - the scratches.”

He adds woodenly, “It was kind of you. But you should have left when I told you to go.”

Hermione bluntly dismisses his remonstration. “Pfft. Like I’ve ever obeyed your commands,” she scoffs.

 _You do in bed_. Draco refrains from voicing the retort; his knowing smirk is enough as Hermione reddens.

“I realized this morning that I should have used ‘ _Episkey’_ on your wounds,” Hermione gabbles the words in a rush. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I’m more Muggle than I give credit for.”

“No, you were right to use the first aid kit. Spells don’t work on – on the Mark,” Draco divulges bitterly. “And no matter what I do to it… it always heals perfectly. ‘Like magic’, I suppose you could say,” he mocks with a harsh grimace.

“No matter what you do to it?” Hermione echoes, frowning mightily. “What _have_ you done, Malfoy?”. She crosses her arms over her chest and trains a disapproving, judgmental glare at him.

“What _haven’t_ I done? It’s impervious to counter-spells, healing potions, topical poisons, blades, fire, and ice,” Draco sharply snaps back. “I drew the line at acid and amputation.” He comprehends that he’s said too much when Hermione’s expression shifts from critical to appalled.

“Don’t look at me like that, Granger – and for Salazar’s sake, don’t start bloody crying!”. The woeful, empathetic sadness suffusing Hermione’s face has Draco feeling as guilty as if he’d just kicked a kitten. 

“You wanted to cut off your own arm?” Hermione shakily whispers. She turns her head to furtively swipe beneath her eyes and swallows a telling sniff.

“Not seriously. I’d rather have a repulsively defaced arm than not,” Draco gentles his tone, fiercely regretting his confession.

“It’s not repulsive! Or defaced!” Hermione hotly defends. “No more than my ‘Mudblood’ scar is… Or do you think it is a hideous mutilation, too?”. She hugs her arms about her torso tightly and hunches her shoulders.

“No! Of course not! That’s – that’s completely different,” Draco bellows. “I _chose_ to accept this revolting brand, Granger – you were assaulted and victimized by my demonically insane aunt.”

“You were just a boy – what choice did you really have?” Hermione argues.

Shaking his head obdurately, Draco rebuts, “I was sixteen – old enough to make my own decisions.”

He scowls in frustration. “Let this drop, Granger. I really don’t want to waste words on the rotten thing any longer.”

Hermione nods, refusing to meet his perturbed gaze.

“My scar… I can’t heal it, either,” she timorously owns. “Not that I’ve tried – um, your methods; but glamours and potions don’t make one whit of difference to its appearance. I used to spend a small fortune on Muggle make-up.”

She raises her head defiantly. Tiny droplets gloss the lashes bordering her tempestuous carob-coloured eyes.

“But then I thought – this isn’t _my_ shame. Now I treat it like a battle scar. Plus I rub Vitamin E cream into it every day and tell myself it’s fading,” Hermione lampoons with a weak chuckle.

Draco capitulates to the compulsion to reach out, clasping Hermione’s little hands. He circles his thumbs across her palms and softly imprints his lips on her forehead. He cannot speak over the lump in his throat; her unflagging, optimistic bravery is profoundly humbling.

Hermione is the first to pull away; she kneels before the book pile, glancing shyly at Draco.

“I should leave for work soon – I’ll just put these back,” she points to the collection of volumes.

Standing upright, Draco helps the surprised witch to her feet.

“Don’t worry about that. Granger – I have to tell you something. And you’re not going to like it,” Draco warns, leading her around the back of the three-seater blue couch and guiding her to sit down upon it. He doesn’t provide Hermione the opportunity to protest his high-handedness as he snugs in beside her and retains his hold on her right hand.

 _Best to ensure she isn’t able to tear off in a righteous fury when I tell her about the predicament caused by Zabini’s meddling_ , Draco reasons.

Apprehension writ across her features, Hermione stammers, “What is it, Malfoy? Are we – are we finished? Our… our ‘arrangement’?”. She attempts to yank her hand away but is unable to break Draco’s infrangible hold.

“No! Sit still and just listen… please,” Draco tacks on clumsily, cursing himself for not telling Hermione about the confounded ultimatum last night.

 _I didn’t want to ruin the evening. So I’ll ruin the morning instead. Brilliant._ Draco takes a moment to frame his explanation.

“Granger… I have an appointment to see Potter at the Ministry, early tomorrow. I’m going to tell him about the roofie potion, and the danger you’re presently facing,” Draco tells her in measured tones.

“Wait – let me explain,” he forestalls her impending objection. “I asked Blaise Zabini to _discreetly_ ask around about any incidents similar to your own; but the presumptuous fool took it upon himself to go directly to the Ministry’s star Auror and promised my witness testimony in return for pertinent information,” Draco spits out churlishly.

“You told Blaise Zabini what happened to me? He’s a worse gossipmonger than Rita Skeeter!” Hermione’s voice is laced with hurt at the perceived betrayal of her confidence.

“I certainly did not – I told Blaise and Theo Nott a very brief summary of your drugging. I never mentioned your name, Granger. Neither of them know that you are involved, and I intend to keep it that way,” Draco pacifies the upset woman tucked into his side.

“I know you didn’t wish to involve the Ministry. But in light of the information Blaise traded – we must tell Potter. You’re not safe. It’s not the first time these swine have struck: they are mobilized, cunning, and insidiously dangerous. And viciously, irredeemably evil.”

“What… what aren’t you saying, Malfoy?” Hermione’s face blanches as she searches Draco’s bleak face. He grips her hand a little tighter in silent support and concisely apprises her of the assailants’ ‘practice runs’ and the concomitant Auror investigation.

Draco maintains a static pitch and pace until the time comes to impart that the would-be kidnappers and rapists likely meant to forcibly impregnate their victims; he briefly debates withholding that final foul detail. But no: Hermione expects and deserves the truth, however repugnant it is.

“They intended to keep the French witch captive as a breed-slave, Granger,” Draco reluctantly communicates. He grits his teeth as he watches Hermione’s face slacken in shock.

Forcing himself to continue, Draco expounds, “They told her that her children ‘would carry on the great glory of the Dark Lord’s legacy’.”

“These perverted, scurrilous, filthy scum should be drawn and quartered – and their tattered remains fed to sharks!” Draco has trouble containing his savage thirst for the as-yet-nameless criminals’ demise. Occlumency defences be damned. He draws his other arm protectively around Hermione as she shudders in delayed reaction to his bleak news.

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be alright, Granger. We won’t let anything happen to you. Shh, _ma petite_. Take a moment.”

Draco rocks her against his chest, disturbed by how passive and limp Hermione feels in his arms. Her state of inertia is worryingly irreconcilable with her usual energetic, proactive response to dangerous drama.

“I’ll handle Potter, don’t worry,” Draco promises, carefully tipping Hermione’s chin, urging her to meet his gaze again. Her complexion is wan and waxy with distress.

Hermione’s eyes are dry and stark as she tonelessly decides, “I’ll tell Harry myself – you don’t have to be there. This isn’t your problem, Malfoy. I can handle it from here.”

“You are not going in without me,” Draco instantly vetoes that daft idea. “I won’t countenance any argument over this, understand?”.

Hermione refuses to answer; she glares mutinously at Draco and stiffens in his arms.

“Be reasonable, Granger – Potter is expecting the ‘mystery witness’ to show, and he won’t be satisfied with any redacted version of events that you’re planning on reciting. Best to be candid and disclose all, including my involvement,” Draco rationalizes.

“Should we tell Harry that we’re having sex, too?” Hermione snipes as she attempts to wriggle away. “Or are you reserving that juicy tidbit for some time down the track? Like Christmas?”.

She succeeds in standing up; her barbed query has staggered Draco into loosening his embrace. He is spurred into speech when he spies Hermione fetching her work satchel and black greatcoat from the cherrywood coffee table. She puts on both with jerky movements, staying Draco with a curt hand gesture as he gets up to aid her.

“By all means, inform Potter,” Draco enounces cuttingly. “I do hope you know the counter-spell for ‘ _Sectumsempra’_ ; I ask for purely selfish reasons, you understand.”

His words have the desired effect: Hermione ceases fiddling with the adjustment strap of her satchel to furiously upbraid, “Harry would never do that again! He’s been riddled with guilt ever since!”

“Yes, well, I’d rather not risk a repeat performance of bleeding to death on the floor – so let’s skip the full reveal tomorrow, if it’s all the same to you.”

 _Her fierce loyalty to Potter is as irksome as ever_. Draco experiences an uneasy mix of admiration and resentment.

“It’s none of his business, in any case.” Draco risks standing closer to Hermione; at least the angry witch doesn’t have her wand at the ready.

“My appointment with Potter is scheduled for half eight tomorrow morning – will you meet me there?”. He raises his left hand to skim her velvety cheek, sighing at her intractability.

“Please, Granger.” Hermione doesn’t resist as Draco glides his fingertips down her face, stopping their descent at the jittery pulse of her carotid artery. He tenderly strokes the rapid beat twice before letting his left arm fall back to his side.

Her long eyelashes flurry against her petal-soft skin as Hermione choppily exhales.

“I wish you wouldn’t touch me while we’re arguing, Malfoy. It’s unsporting.” Hermione’s words are scarcely audible; Draco isn’t certain that she meant to express them aloud.

She clears her throat. “Very well. We’ll see Harry together. But I shall be the one to tell him what happened to me… and ‘I won’t countenance any argument over this, understand?’” Hermione flings Draco’s earlier decree back at him, aping his autocratic tones with startling precision.

Hermione’s unerring mimicry generates a begrudging guffaw from Draco, and the rampant tension is broken. Hermione’s lips compress as she smothers a small smile of triumph.

“I’d best be on my way – nose to the grindstone and all that,” Hermione shifts toward the fireplace.

“Have you had breakfast? You should have something to eat before you leave,” Draco settles his hand on her hip.

“I helped myself to some toast, and coffee – I left you half the cafetière, but it’s probably cold as charity by now,” Hermione confesses.

“And I used the en suite bathroom in the other upstairs bedroom to shower, earlier. I didn’t want to wake you. Sorry.” She fiddles with her cross-body satchel strap again.

“No need to apologize. Use whatever you wish. Let me know if there’s anything else you require while you’re here and I will procure it.” Draco clamps his lips shut to halt the spill of eager offers.

_Why am I gushing like a busted tap? Pipe down, duffer._

“Um, OK. No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Hermione is side-eyeing him as though he’s sprouted angel wings. She shuffles closer to the hearth.

“Be safe, Granger.” Draco jams his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow,” Hermione rejoins. Her luminous caramel eyes catch his; all of a sudden, she hurtles back to where Draco stands and angles up to crash her warm lips onto his in a burst of heat and hunger.

Busy little hands steal beneath the loose lapels of the blue gown as Hermione charts the contours of Draco’s muscular bare torso. He groans into her ardent mouth: set aflame and aching to reciprocate her caresses.

But Hermione terminates the sultry kiss as swiftly as she’d initiated it; she races back to the lit fireplace, hastily snatching and dispersing a handful of Floo powder before ducking beneath the mantle. The flames convert to green as she enunciates, “The Ministry of Magic” and is whirled away.

Draco touches his tingling mouth. Its restive throbbing is emulated by his (now) wide-awake loins. He stares at the vacant ingle, flummoxed.

 _Damned if I know what that kiss meant… but I definitely didn’t want it to end_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted excerpt is from 'Tehanu' by Ursula K Le Guin.  
> It is Book Four of 'The Earthsea Quartet'.  
> I do not own the rights to any part of the excerpt material.


	16. Investigation

__

_Friday 28 February 2003: AM_

Hurrying from the elevator, Hermione checks her wristwatch and allows herself a little self-satisfied nod. It is just shy of eight o’clock, and she is confident that Harry will already be in the building… since she owled him last night asking to meet before work proper began for the day.

 _Malfoy needn’t think his tyranny is limitless._ By the time Draco arrives for his 8.30AM appointment with Harry, Hermione will have had ample opportunity to brief Harry on the situation. Her nod firms to a smile as she considers his probable reaction to her mild under-handedness: frigid seething or outraged affront? _‘Twill be interesting to discover which._

Her cocky smile vanishes like vapour as she spots a familiar head of flaxen hair bent over the coral and peach bouquet on her desk. Malfoy senses her approach and spins lazily, grinning like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

_The dirty, shifty, supercilious rat… Draco played me like a fiddle._

The disgustingly smug grin on his face is insanely infuriating; Hermione can _hear_ her blood pressure skyrocketing as she bustles to her cubicle.

She opens her mouth to commence a tirade – but Malfoy beats her to the punch.

“What an unexpected surprise, Granger! It reflects well on your professional ethic – arriving a good thirty minutes early. Such a reliable buzzy worker bee,” Draco gleefully comments.

“Are you done?” Hermione changes tack. Judging by the miffed expression on Draco’s dishy phiz – it was the right call.

“We may as well get this over with, Malfoy – Harry’s waiting.”

Not waiting for Draco’s reply, Hermione moves to charge past him toward the Auror’s Office. He snakes out his left arm and draws her back to his front, his breath ruffling the top of her brunette curls.

“Hey. I was just kidding. Thought it might lighten the mood,” Draco murmurs, sounding contrite. “Are you up for this, Granger?”.

Her traitorous inner siren longs to lean back and basically scent-mark herself all over Malfoy; he smells divine, and Hermione’s pulse is jack-hammering from being pressed intimately against his long, sinewy body. The multiple layers of clothing between them merely serve as an irritating barrier; she wants to be skin-to-skin again with the maddening man in the worst (or best) possible way.

“Granger? Have you zoned out on me?” Draco prompts. There is a note of concern in his voice as he gently rotates her to face him.

“No! No, I’m good. I mean, I’m well. I’m up for this – yes, yes I am.” Hermione winces at how flustered she sounds. She adopts a wide, toothy smile in an effort to demonstrate her capable composure.

Draco recoils. “Salazar’s side whiskers! What was that – a clown suffering a seizure?”.

“Stuff it, Malfoy,” Hermione glowers. “It’s not my problem you’re so under-exposed to smiles that you fail to recognize one on my face.”

“You’re quite nasty in the early morning, aren’t you, poppet?” Draco genially observes. “Shame we don’t have time to turn that frown upside down with some furious snogging in an empty broom closet, eh?”.

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, hamming up a lecherous leer.

Hermione laughs reluctantly, her animosity dissolving at the silly picture he presents.

“You’re a goose – and I have not – nor will I – ever ‘snog in a broom closet’ at my workplace,” she confidently states.

“Challenge accepted.” Draco stalks toward her like a hungry snow leopard.

Hermione bangs her hip on the edge of a desk as she dodges away. “Ouch! Stop it, Malfoy – we don’t have time for this,” she hisses, trying not to giggle.

“Hermione? What’s going on here?” The stern voice behind her is horrifyingly familiar.

 _Oh no. How long has Harry been standing there?_ Hermione freezes as her mind blanks.

Draco has already assumed his regular aloof expression with lightning speed, she perceives with relief.

Forcing her stiff muscles to comply, Hermione turns to greet her best friend.

“Hi, Harry.” He is staring at them suspiciously from a few feet away, his black hair already disordered and clumping upright. Hermione moves in to give him a quick hug; Harry returns the cuddle but continues to view Draco with marked disfavour.

“Is he harassing you, Hermione?” Harry shifts, safeguarding her behind him as he advances towards Malfoy. Draco holds his ground and his air of bored insouciance. 

Hermione grabs Harry’s arm before the situation escalates.

“Harry, Malfoy’s not hassling me. He’s here to help me, actually.” The disbelieving astonishment on Harry’s face is not encouraging, Hermione thinks glumly.

“Help you? With what? Bruising yourself on the furniture?” Harry queries sarcastically.

“Patience, Potter. All will be revealed soon enough,” Draco drawls. “But that’s never been your strong point, has it? You’ve always suffered from a dearth of impulse control.”

It speaks to Harry’s improved maturity and trained discipline that he doesn’t visibly react; although Hermione sees his hand flex near his robe pocket. Like a gunslinger itching for his pistol.

 _This could quickly turn pear-shaped_. Hermione’s unease rachets to alarm.

“Stow the misplaced machismo – both of you. Harry, is there somewhere we can speak privately, please?” Hermione hooks her arm through Harry’s and hauls him out of hexing distance.

“I’ve booked one of the interrogation rooms for my eight thirty appointment – but that doesn’t leave us much time,” Harry rumples his hair as he contemplates a solution.

“I _am_ your eight thirty meeting, Potter,” Draco coolly points out. “Slower than a snail,” he adds under his breath.

Hermione slings him a quelling look, hoping Harry doesn’t get his hackles up again. Harry’s chary gaze is bouncing between her and Draco like a spectator at Wimbledon. But he doesn’t resist as she chivvies him toward the interrogation rooms around the corner.

Draco prowls behind them as Harry opens the door to Room Two. The interior is sparse and windowless, apart from a large mirror shining on the back wall; Hermione supposes it is a one-way device allowing observation by unseen watchers (much like Muggle cop dramas). Harry points his wand at it to turn it opaque.

“Right. Now that we’re guaranteed privacy: which of you wants to enlighten me first?” Harry’s viridian green eyes narrow as he witnesses Draco attentively seating Hermione in the hard-backed ‘interviewee’ chair, before Malfoy drags over a similar seat from the corner and angles it right beside her.

Hermione jumps in. “Harry – a little under two weeks ago, I was poisoned with a ‘roofie’ potion while I was out at a pub for a date. I ended up unconscious on Malfoy’s doorstep.”

She precludes Harry’s angry expostulation by continuing in a rush, “I know it sounds fantastical – and it is – but Malfoy took me inside and looked after me. I... I spewed up most of the potion on him when I initially came to. And I made him promise not to seek medical attention or involve the Ministry.”

Harry’s vexed wrath softens as he asks sorrowfully, “Why didn’t you come straight to me, Hermione? You know I would have dropped everything to keep you safe.”

“Harry, I couldn’t contact you – whatever they doped me with deadened my magic. And then, later… I was phobic about becoming the unwilling star of a sensational scandal. I thought I could manage it myself. I know it was selfish, stupid, and short-sighted. I’m sorry.” Hermione’s guilt and misery soars.

Harry shakes his head. “Look, Hermione, I understand where you’re coming from; but your safety is paramount. Always.”

He glares at Draco, leaning threateningly toward the taller man. “Are you absolutely certain Malfoy wasn’t involved?”.

“Fuck you, Potter.” Draco pronounces the words with arctic contempt, before making a grand production of casually lacing his hands behind his head. His mist-hued eyes flash with constrained spleen.

Rising to her feet, Hermione plants her hands flat on the pitted metal table as she counsels, “Harry - If you can’t accept that Malfoy has done naught but protect and support me through this horrible ordeal, we’re wasting our time speaking with you.”

“Hermione, stop. Alright, I’ll leave that avenue of enquiry alone. Please, sit down and tell me exactly what happened that night,” Harry urges, pulling fresh parchment, quills and ink from his capacious pockets.

“Well, I recently joined a Muggle dating website…” Hermione launches into a detailed recounting, pausing occasionally when Harry’s zippy scribbling struggles to keep up. Early in the piece, Draco slips from the room to return with a glass of water for her; she thanks him with a grateful smile, sipping slowly in between her monologues.

Remembered feelings of terror and panic jeopardize her composed retelling when she speaks of hiding in the oak tree in the park and groggily scuttling through the murky streets. Draco doesn’t hesitate to enfold her hand in his, interweaving their fingers as they rest upon her knee. Hermione takes renewed strength from his comforting gesture and holds tight to Draco’s warm hand as she recommences her tale.

“Hermione, how is it that you remember these details, given the potion’s pervasive side effects of memory loss and disorientation?” Harry quizzes.

“I guided her through a controlled Legilimency session,” Draco contributes. “And before you flip your lid, Potter: I know what I’m doing. It was a doddle,” he arrogantly assures.

Malfoy releases Hermione’s hand to unearth a slim roll of vellum and a small vial from the inside pocket of his superbly tailored three-piece sloe-black suit. He hands both to Harry, explaining, “This is a sample of Granger’s vomit, and the likenesses of the two scumbags who lured her to the Wonky Donkey.”

Untying the scrap of ribbon around the scroll, Harry shuffles the drawings apart and smooths them flat. Hermione leans over the table, curiosity piqued. She gasps in wonderment; even from her upside-down vantage point, the pencil sketches are rendered almost photo-realistic in detail and accuracy. Draco’s rare artistic ability has perfectly duplicated her borrowed memories, although the wrong-smelling ‘drink-bumper’ is less meticulously detailed than her ‘date’; she’d hardly got a look at him before he’d faded back into the crowd.

Harry is scrutinizing Draco as though he’s grown horns. “You drew these, Malfoy?”.

“I won’t dignify that redundant question with a response, Potter,” Draco scornfully retaliates.

Hermione reaches over for Draco’s hand this time. She ignores Harry’s wide eyes.

“Malfoy, these are brilliant. Thank you. You’ve an amazing talent,” she praises.

The top helices of Draco’s ears pink as he declines Hermione’s commendation. “Being filthy rich has its benefits, Granger. Such as - private tutors. For anything you can conceive an interest in.”

He produces a page-sized rectangle of parchment from another jacket pocket, laying it beside his illustrations.

“This is the analysis of the potion ingredients. Although I assumed you’d want your own boffins to officially confirm same.” Draco twines his fingers through Hermione’s again without looking at her.

“Why aren’t you working for the Ministry, Malfoy? I had no idea of the scope of your expertise.” Harry’s expression is stuck somewhere between admiration, bafflement, and lingering wariness.

“I have zero interest in being a cog in the machine, Potter.” Draco dismisses the question, shrugging irritably.

 _He grapples with accepting sincere compliments_ , Hermione realizes. Always quick to mock and deflect. _Interesting._

“Harry, do you have anything else to ask me? I’m feeling rather drained,” Hermione admits. Talking about her tribulation has triggered a raft of negative emotions; she is longing to escape the forbidding, spartan environ of the interrogation room and hole up somewhere quiet and private for some rest and reflection.

“Sorry, love. I tend to get caught up during an investigation,” Harry apologizes. “Just a few more things: I assume that Malfoy has told you about the other victims? And that my team is vigorously pursuing all leads?”.

“Yes. I truly regret not coming to you sooner, Harry. I realize that burying my head in the sand has potentially set back your timeline.” Hermione bows her head, eyes smarting as she wills away hot tears. “And I’ve probably endangered other women by not having the courage to deal with it sooner.”

Harry hastens to rise and come to her side, but Draco thwarts the move, pulling Hermione into a one-armed side-hug.

“Come on Granger, you’re indulging in unwarranted martyrdom now,” he reproaches, without any genuine censure. “You’re coping amazingly well with a frightening and traumatic situation. Buck up, Golden Girl.”

Hermione hiccoughs a sob-slash-laugh, dabbing blindly at her wet eyes with the black silk handkerchief Draco has pushed into her hand. She looks up as Harry kneels on her other side.

“I hate to say it – but Malfoy’s right, Hermione,” Harry says softly. “We all react differently to extreme stressors. Go easy on yourself, sweetheart.” He stands up and holds out his hand to help her up. Draco rises with them.

“Come see me later, OK? I want to make sure you’re alright. And discuss tightening your personal security,” Harry requests.

She gives a subdued nod. “I’ll find you. Thanks, Harry.” Hermione presses a light kiss to his cheek before she makes for the door, Draco hot on her heels.

“Malfoy, a word?” Harry’s tone brooks no opposition.

Hermione whips back her head in alarm. Harry correctly interprets the cause.

“Don’t worry, Hermione. I promise – no violence. Just a quick chat. Wands will remain in pockets,” Harry grins mischievously.

“Speak for yourself,” Draco mutters sourly. He bends his head to Hermione’s. “I’ll see you before I leave, Granger. There’s a Kit Kat in the top drawer of your desk. Eat it.” His pitch is low enough that Harry cannot eavesdrop.

 _He’s slaying me with his singular kindnesses_. Hermione dips her head and bolts through the open portal before she starts weeping in earnest.

The door snicks closed behind her.

* * *

_Ten minutes passes damned quickly while you’re indulging in a good crying jag in the toilet_ , Hermione decides as she blubs her last snivel and blots her swollen eyes with the thin sandpaper that the Ministry has the gall to label toilet paper. Draco’s handkerchief is a sodden lump in her cardigan pocket; its limited absorbency was no match for her steady flow of tears.

She hoists herself off the closed lid of the loo, plodding to the vanity and studiously avoiding her woebegone reflection as she quickly washes her hands and face. The bout of quiet sobbing has left her feeling spent but cleansed. Dwelling on the terrible fate that she narrowly avoided ten days ago is confronting.

Wending her way back to her cubicle, Hermione keeps her gaze trained on the carpeted floor and works loose a few more springy acorn ringlets from her low ponytail to cover more of her puffy face. She slots into her chair and checks the top drawer: Draco has indeed left her a chocolate bar. Hermione pries it open and nibbles contentedly.

She is absently pleating the empty wrapper in her fingers when a shadow falls across her desk. The dawning smile on her face falls as she looks up into Ron Weasley’s flinty face. His aqua eyes are vacillating between the coral bouquet and the Kit Kat packaging in her hands.

“Hello, Hermione. I came to give you these – “ he flourishes a box of Beech’s Turkish Delights from behind his back and drops them ungently on her desk – “but I see that you’re already covered in the chocolate department. And all set for flowers, too.” Ron looks daggers at her blooms.

“Didn’t you get my roses? I’ve been waiting to hear back from you all week!” Ron’s petulant voice rises to an uncomfortable volume.

 _Could this day get any worse?_ Hermione wants to crawl beneath her desk and start crying again. She closes her eyes briefly as she rapidly mentally shuffles through the most effective and discreet method to defuse Ron’s simmering surliness. This is her place of employment, for goodness’ sake. She stands to speak.

“Ron, I told you at Harry’s that I am not interested in a romantic relationship with you. My feelings haven’t changed because you sent me some nice roses and a passive invitation to your family’s Sunday luncheon.” Hermione strives to keep rancour from her tone.

“No. You never said we couldn’t try again, Hermione – you told me that you wouldn’t allow me to take you for granted anymore,” Ron argues.

Replaying the scene at Grimmauld Place, Hermione is dismayed to realize Ron has the right of it.

 _I didn’t explicitly tell him we didn’t have a future. Buggeration! I’m such a Dorcas._ Hermione slaps her palm against her forehead with a groan.

“What more do you want from me, Hermione? I said I was sorry for not treating you right – and I’m trying to change for you.” Ron leans in to tuck a loose curl behind her ear; Hermione automatically flinches away before he can complete the familiarly affectionate action.

Her instinctual rejection inflames Ron’s sulky ire. “Can’t bear for me to touch you now, eh, Hermione? That’s lovely, that is.” He casts another baleful glare at her nosegay.

“You chucked out my expensive roses, ignored my invite and haven’t even said thank you for the chocolates,” Ron hotly accuses. “I’m making a big bloody effort here and as usual, it’s not good enough for Little Miss High and Mighty. You want to watch yourself, babe – I won’t put up with this rot forever.”

Lividity rushes to Hermione’s head faster than a speeding Zouwu. Rage temporarily strikes her mute as Ron folds his arms with a long-suffering sigh. Hermione’s fury-boggled eyes fall on the box of chocolates Ron has oh-so-magnanimously gifted her… and then had the chutzpah to whinge that she hasn’t thanked him properly.

Tapping her forefinger in an angry tempo on the harmless choccies, Hermione hits Ron with both barrels.

“Do not call me ‘babe’… or ‘Little Miss High and Mighty’ ever again, Ronald Weasley. Let me remedy my earlier oversight – we are done. _DONE_. I don’t want your flowers; I don’t want to have dinner with your family - not while you’re in attendance, anyway; and I don’t want your poxy chocolates.”

“I _abhor_ Turkish delights – it speaks to your life-long condition of ‘head-stuck-up-your-own-arse’ that you managed to choose my absolute least favourite confectionary. Ooh, but of course! You picked it because _you_ like Turkish delights.”

“But I’ve seen you eating Turkish delights before! I know I have!” Ron’s injured tone is yet another red rag to Hermione’s raging bull.

“No, you didn’t! You witnessed me chewing the milk chocolate off the outside of the damned squares before spitting their pink guts back into the tray! Because I had my period, I was feral, and I would have eaten chocolate-coated cockroaches if you’d brought a box over!” Hermione growls. “But all I had in the flat was your rotten Turkish delights!”.

Hermione is seething so fiercely that she nearly misses hearing a new voice contribute to their painfully public drama.

“Are you aware your lovers’ tiff has attracted quite the audience?” Draco silkily interjects. “Schedule it properly in future and charge admittance; I’m certain you could use the extra Galleons, Weasel.”

 _Oh, hell no_. Hermione frantically spins her head to the left; Draco is standing in the passageway, wearing a smile of cool amusement that doesn’t reach his stony eyes. And yes – at least half a dozen of her Administration Services colleagues are riveted to her and Ron’s noisy spectacle.

Ron lunges forward, vibrating with belligerence.

“Fuck off, Ferret. This is none of your business,” he snarls pugnaciously.

Draco chuckles mirthlessly, haughtily tipping down his patrician nose to sneer at Ron.

“Ever the witty wordsmith – glad to see you’re still the same blundering boor that I fondly remember besting at… well… everything.”

“You wanna have a go, you gutless git?”.

Ron appears ready to engage in vicious fisticuffs in the middle of the office, Hermione realizes with mounting horror. And Draco is just as willing, judging by his clenching fists and ticking jaw.

Hermione has had enough. Of the interminable morning, the embarrassing public scenes, and especially the two testosterone-fuelled idiots currently shaping up to brawl beside her cubicle.

“Get out of my way, both of you,” she snaps. “If you’re determined to behave like a couple of common goblins beside my desk, I won’t stick around to watch it. Don’t be here when I return.”

She charges past the fools and makes for the break room, steaming with incensed humiliation. The bare-faced effrontery! Of them both!

A hot cup of coffee from her favourite red mug works marvels in restoring Hermione’s equilibrium. Plus, she hasn’t heard any sounds of masculine aggression or pain, nor has anyone run into the room screaming, “Fight, fight!”.

Approaching her cubicle cautiously, Hermione exhales in relief. Her furniture and possessions remain whole and intact; Ron’s chocolates have vanished off the desktop; and neither aggravating man is in sight. The sole variance in the appearance of her workspace is an origami butterfly fashioned from plain parchment, tucked into the coral roses. She plucks it from the bunch and flips it over: one delicate wing is inscribed in bold copperplate lettering.

‘Owl me, _ma petite_.’

Hermione thunks her head against her desk in befuddled exasperation.

_This is undoubtedly a ‘Turkish delight’ type of day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to the lovers of Turkish delights.


	17. Kindred

__

_Friday 28 February 2003: PM_

Draco claws at his tightly knotted onyx tie as he walks swiftly toward the old library of Malfoy Manor, succeeding in loosening it by a scant half-inch. He quickens his long strides in the hope of escaping to his long-time bolt hole before any other members of the household notice his early arrival to the traditional Friday dinner.

He has almost reached the familiar sanctuary when the faint sound of multiple raised voices solidifies to a raucous hubbub. A _mobile_ raucous hubbub that spills around the corner of the long corridor and directly into Draco’s line of sight.

Narcissa is holding an angry house elf in either hand; Ruibby on her left, and Macdolas on her right. Both are equally busy trying to yank free of his mother’s careful but firm hold and are shouting over the top of her (and each other), their squalls overlapping. The sheer volume they are each projecting is frankly impressive, given their small stature. Not to mention discordant and headache-inducing.

 _I need this melodrama like I need the bubonic plague_. Draco scrambles to turn the polished handle of the library door before the trio realize his presence, but he has missed his chance; Narcissa calls loudly to him, relief and perturbation colouring her voice.

“Draco! Darling, thank Salazar you’re here! We need your help quite desperately.”

His deep sigh could inflate a hot air balloon. Draco aims a last longing glance at the closed door before trudging closer to the domestic circus.

“What’s the problem, Mother?”. At least the strident bickering has eased with his approach. The little house elves have turned their backs to each other in a seemingly choreographed display of wrathful disdain, even tapping their tiny feet in unison.

Draco represses a smile. The comedy of the situation is overridden by their obvious distress: Ruibby’s face is wet with indignant tears, while Macdolas is as red as a Kashmiri chilli and is sniffing back his own irate waterworks.

Narcissa puffs a breath of pure frustration. “I’m yet to discover the whole truth of it; but as it stands, Ruibby is threatening to resign immediately if we don’t sack Macdolas, and Macdolas is insisting on tendering his resignation because he apparently ‘can no longer stomach working with a stone-faced scold who treats his tender heart like haggis stuffing’.”

“Just another Friday evening, then,” Draco dryly observes. “Although the angst has risen to alarming levels.”

He bends to clap a hand on Macdolas’s bantam shoulder. “Come on, mate. Let’s have a chat in the library and sort out this kerfuffle, hmm?”. Macdolas’s lower lip quavers, but he allows himself to be gently guided down the hallway.

“Thank you, Draco. Ruibby and I will have a little talk in the parlour,” Narcissa leads the diminutive housekeeper in the opposite direction as Ruibby blots her moist face with her white apron skirt.

After assisting Macdolas into one of the cosy brown leather armchairs in the expansive reading nook on the library’s lower level, Draco takes a seat in the adjacent easy chair and looks over the upset manservant.

Macdolas is currently clothed in an eye-wateringly bright magenta and black facsimile of a mid-Victorian footman’s livery. The over-sized snowy bow tie is askew and Macdolas has uncharacteristically missed closing a brass button on the waistcoat; he nervously tinkers with it now, evading Draco’s eyes.

“Would you care for some water, Macdolas?”. The elf shakes his head, but Draco pours them both a glass from the carafe on the low table beside them.

“Alright – what’s happened? What’s all this nonsense about resigning? It’s not like you to holler at your beloved in the middle of the Manor,” Draco prompts.

“Begging your pardon, Master Malfoy – but Mistress Ruibby has rejected Macdolas’s love for the last time! Macdolas cannot call her his beloved! Mistress Ruibby tells Macdolas his love is a… a… millstone round her neck, she does!”. The distraught major-domo’s agitated fingers threaten to entirely twist off the middle waistcoat button.

_Ouch. No wonder the poor little bugger is beside himself._

“I’m sorry to hear that, Macdolas. That’s harsh,” Draco sympathizes. “Did Ruibby say why she feels that way?” he probes.

Macdolas stiffens as he recounts, “Macdolas tells Mistress Ruibby every day that she be his soulmate, and Macdolas will wait for her forever. And today Macdolas gives her the ruby ring his mother gives him – what’s given to Macdolas’s mother by her most venerable mistress, Lady Lilias Mac Fhionnlaigh – and Mistress Ruibby tosses Macdolas’s mother’s ruby ring into the raspberry pudding mix and tells Macdolas to leave her be or Mistress Ruibby ups and leaves!”.

Gesticulating wildly, Macdolas knocks his water glass flying; before Draco can consider grabbing for it, Macdolas snaps his knobby fingers and the glass reverses its headlong journey to the floor, the water droplets streaming back into it in a perfect reverse of the spill.

Draco opens his mouth to compliment the little sprite on the gifted piece of telekinesis, but Macdolas charges on.

“Macdolas never wants Mistress Ruibby to leave her job! Macdolas vows to leave instead! Anyways, Macdolas has his pride and won’t be bothering Mistress Ruibby – no, he takes his broken heart with him when he leaves, Master Malfoy.” The elf heaves a sobbing breath and downs the glass of water in one gulp.

Draco casts about for an appropriate response. _‘Did somebody fish out the ruby ring from the pudding mix?’ probably isn’t it._

He takes a moment to consider the problem as Macdolas slumps miserably into the armchair, his spindly legs sticking straight out in front of him; he mopes at his glum reflection in his mirror-shined black shoes.

“Look, Macdolas – we really don’t wish for you to leave. You are a valuable member of the household and we are extremely pleased with your work,” Draco begins.

Macdolas brightens a little, his large nubbly ears twitching.

“But nor do we want you – or Ruibby – to be unhappy here. I know that you love Ruibby very much –“

“Macdolas does, he does, he _really_ does, Master Malfoy!”

“ – and you would be forlorn… heartbroken, without her. Perhaps we could try something different? I’m afraid your established courtship tactics haven’t been effective, Macdolas: and you do need to respect Ruibby’s choices. And refrain from calling her ‘a stone-faced scold’, by the way.”

Crestfallen, Macdolas hunches over and is swallowed by the chair once more.

“Macdolas returns to Scotland in the morning,” he dolefully proclaims.

“No, I was thinking that perhaps it’s time you had a change of scenery, Macdolas. How would you like to work for me for the next few weeks?” Draco is flying by the seat of his pants at this point.

“Here’s the thing, as I see it – you’ve never given Ruibby a chance to miss having you in her life; you’ve declared your undying love for her literally from the moment you first met. And maybe she wasn’t ready to hear it at the time. Maybe Ruibby needs some time to process her feelings about you without daily reminders of your eternal devotion, Macdolas.”

The elven steward’s eyes absurdly enlarge as he mulls over Malfoy’s advice.

Draco forges on with his hastily conceived scheme. “I require some help with housework, and meals, for a fortnight or so; and I’ll double your pay for the inconvenience. Maybe you could use the extra Galleons to gift Ruibby a ring she doesn’t consign to the dessert batter,” he jokes.

_No. Too soon. Backtrack before he starts sniffling again._

“Or you could add to your brilliant uniform collection – the one you’re wearing today is rather spiffy, isn’t it?”. Crisis averted – Macdolas is proudly puffing his chest and straightening his dicky bow.

Observably heartened, Macdolas accepts Draco’s outstretched hand and shakes enthusiastically. “Master Malfoy is a genius and Macdolas is proud to serve the Townhouse of Malfoy!” he loudly avouches. “Macdolas takes leave to pack for his most honourable posting!” and he Disapparates with a sharp crack.

Bloody hell. Draco thunks the back of his head into the well-padded tan leather and regards himself as lucky to have not been left cross-eyed and bamboozled by the quirky circumstance of doling out relationship counselling to his house elf.

 _I suppose I can count the discussion a qualified success_ , he reflects. _Except: now I must invent enough household tasks to keep Macdolas happily occupied for the next fourteen days. Terrific._

Closing his eyes, Draco’s thoughts return to the other peculiar conversation he has experienced today… staying behind in the interrogation room with Harry Potter, to discuss the danger facing Hermione Granger.

 _You couldn’t dream up this shite if you tried_ , Draco grumbles.

* * *

They’d faced each other warily after Hermione left the room; Draco had preferred to prop himself flush against the closed door than be seated again. Potter had perched on the edge of the metal table and gazed at him curiously.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?”.

Draco had been surprised at the lack of overt animosity in Harry’s voice.

“Be more specific, Potter,” Draco had crooked an eyebrow at the vague question.

Harry had rolled his eyes briefly before elaborating. “Why are you helping Hermione with all this? What’s your angle?”

Potter had leaned forward at the waist, his bright jade eyes glittering behind the round spectacles. “Before you try to sell me a load of tosh, let’s examine the evidence, shall we?”.

“One: I witnessed some intense flirtation between the two of you when I came looking for Hermione; and she looked as though she’d been caught by a Prefect, snogging in a disused Hogwarts classroom.’

“Two: Hermione immediately leapt to your defence and hotly informed me that you ‘have done naught but protect and support’ her through her ordeal.’

“Three: You got her a drink of water – unasked; held her hand and kept hold of it, repeatedly; gave her a hug and verbally reassured her; donated your fancy hankie without a moment’s hesitation; and whispered something intimate in her ear as she departed.’

“Four: You’ve spent a considerable amount of your own time – and Galleons – digging around in this muck, including: taking Hermione into your home that terrible night and caring for her; the guided Legilimency session; private potion analysis; and personally sketching the exceptional mug shot drawings.’

“Five: In an odd coincidence, Hermione’s skin has been marked with mysterious love bites since you became involved in her life; she’s recently received an unattributed bunch of flowers and has been frequently blushing and sporting dreamy smiles when she thinks she’s not being observed.”

Potter hadn’t blinked as he’d waited to trap Draco into a hurried, thoughtless response.

 _I can out-Legilimens you until the end of time_ , Draco had sneered beneath his perfect mask of unruffled loftiness.

“Tell the truth, Malfoy: what are your intentions toward Hermione? Is this some sick game to you?” Potter had stood up with his final provoking query, shoulders tensed and mouth grim.

“ _’My intentions’_? Doing it much too brown, Potter,” Draco had jeered. “Listen up - because this is the only answer I intend to give you. I am helping Granger because I want to. I didn’t ask to be involved, but now that I am, I mean to see it through. Call it a pathetic stab at redemption; curiosity; boredom – whatever you like. I don’t give a flying fuck.’

“Ask yourself this: if you’re so concerned for the welfare of your _best friend_ – the incredible woman who saved your sorry arse from certain suffering and death on multiple occasions – how is it that you didn’t have a clue what was happening in her life until today? You dare to quiz me as to ‘ _my intentions_ ’ when you didn’t notice that she was in danger, worried, traumatized? You’ve got a hell of a fucking nerve, Potter.”

Draco had ceased his frigid tirade, unnerved by the expression of amazed comprehension spreading across Potter’s face. The bastard had proceeded to laugh outright. Had chortled like a ruddy lunatic, in fact. Bursting into fresh guffaws every time he’d looked back at an affronted Draco.

“Is the Ministry aware you’re as mad as a hatter? Should I call in a Healer?” Draco had snipped as Harry had unleashed another series of hearty belly laughs.

The jocular fool had finally settled down long enough to waggle an index finger at Draco.

“You are so screwed, Malfoy. This all makes perfect sense, now. And the best bit of all? You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? Smart as a whip yet blind as a bat,” Potter had shaken his head in disbelief and amusement.

“But I’m warning you, Malfoy – if you hurt Hermione in any way, shape, or form – you’ll answer to me. I won’t hesitate to tear strips from your sorry hide and feed them to a hungry dragon while you watch. Got it?” Potter had switched from jovial to menacing in a millisecond.

Draco had deigned to give the pestiferous man the barest of nods.

“Are you finished with the inquisition and mutilation threats, Potter? Because I can think of a million places I’d rather be.”

Harry had smiled cryptically. “Be on your way, Malfoy. The Ministry thanks you for your help. I won’t hesitate to contact you if we require any further assistance.”

As he’d reached for the door, Potter had slipped in one last non sequitur.

“Hermione loves luxury Belgian truffles. I usually give them to her for her birthday. Do with that what you will, Malfoy.”

Draco had exited swiftly, Potter’s renewed chuckles muted as the door had clicked shut.

* * *

_Fucking Potter_ , Draco thinks bitterly as his consciousness returns to the library environs. _Laughing uproariously at me one moment, only to threaten me the next. He must be cracking under the pressure of being an Auror_ , Draco concludes.

His indignant musings halt as the library door bursts open to admit a familiar, unwelcome face.

“Malfoy! Tell me what happened with Potter this morning, mate – the inter-office grapevine claims you met with him for a job interview, but I know that’s twaddle. Figured I’d get my information from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” Blaise Zabini sanguinely flops into the chair Macdolas recently vacated, grinning like a loon.

“You’ve a hide thicker than an Erumpent’s, Zabini! Barrelling through the door without bothering to knock – were you born in a barn?” Draco scathingly accuses.

“And I emphatically told you to un-invite yourself to dinner tonight. Isn’t our staid family dinner a tame comedown from your usual debauched lifestyle?”.

“Even the Great Zabini needs a night off every now and then, Draco. Besides, when have you ever known me to decline a free dinner?” Blaise rejoins. Draco’s acrimony is having nil effect on his perpetual aura of mischievous merriment.

 _I don’t know why I bother to berate this jester – it all slides off him like water from a duck’s back_. Draco glares darkly as Blaise crosses his ankles on the coffee table.

“That’s an Edwardian antique, you yokel!” Draco knocks down Blaise’s encroaching feet immediately.

“Chill out, Draco – the table didn’t suffer. Damn, you’re uptight! Is it because you and Potter had strong words about your mystery witch?” Zabini provokes.

Draco champs his teeth and rolls his eyes so strenuously that one orb tics.

“Zabini – do you ever let up? I’ve had a bastard of a day. The meeting with Potter – that you engineered, _thank you very much_ – went much as I’d expected. He was suspicious of my involvement and quite prepared to accuse me of the crimes until H –“

Draco quickly covers his slip of the tongue with a manufactured cough – “until he was informed otherwise by the witch in question.”

Blaise arches one groomed jet eyebrow.

“Don’t be coy, Draco – you know I’ll find out soon enough,” he wheedles. “Look at it this way: if you refuse to divulge the truth, I’ll have to begin embellishing my own rumours and conjecture, yeah?”.

 _I’ve had just about enough of this claptrap._ Draco launches himself upright and makes for the door. Unfortunately, Zabini is close behind and still chattering like a magpie.

“We’ll discuss it at dinner then – good idea. I’d enjoy hearing your parents’ take on the matter,” Zabini baits.

Draco whirls. “You shut your mouth at dinner, Zabini, or I’ll bloody well close it for you, do you understand?” he growls.

Blaise reacts with a delighted grin and hooks his left elbow around Draco’s neck in an affectionate headlock.

“Whatever happened to ‘my father will hear about this!’? Such a sourpuss,” Zabini laughs as Draco elbows him away. Draco fussily smooths out imaginary wrinkles from his attire, lips thinned crabbily.

Despite the ambivalence that has been churning in Draco’s mind all week as he’d anticipated tonight’s problematic reconciliation with his father, Draco is relieved to finally enter the Manor’s dining room. Zabini’s relentless badgering is twanging his last nerve.

Narcissa has gone all-out with the dinner setting; the antique table is set for five, silverware and fine china gleaming in the brightly-lit space. A centrepiece of blue irises and white lilies complement the flickering cream beeswax tapers. Draco spares the scene an appreciative glance before his eyes scan the room for its other occupants.

Lucius Malfoy stands stock-still in the far corner; at their entrance, he steps forward falteringly, knuckles white on his ornate heirloom walking stick.

The sight of the sinister serpent-headed cane in his father’s hands is not half as unsettling as the changes that time and suffering have wrought in Lucius’s appearance since Draco last saw him; Draco chokes down an appalled exclamation as he scrutinizes his sire.

Whilst Lucius is scrupulously clean and well-dressed, he is now thin to the point of emaciation; his once perfectly-tailored black suit hangs off his fragile bones and his shoulder-length ashen hair is thinning and dull. Judging by the way his attenuated hand clutches the silver snake’s head, Draco believes that his father is now using the walking stick for actual physical support rather than dramatic effect. Certainly, there is no wand hidden in its stem.

“Good evening, Draco, “ Lucius’s voice is a scarcely above a cracked whisper. “Mr Zabini. Kind of you to join us.”

“Thank you, Lord Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to be here,” Blaise formally acknowledges, accepting and shaking Lucius’s proffered hand.

Draco forms his greeting with stiff lips. “Good evening, Lucius.”

The anthracite eyes so similar to Draco’s own tighten minutely at Draco’s avoidance of calling him ‘Father’, despondency briefly darkening their depths.

Lucius smiles brittlely. “Shall we be seated, gentlemen? Narcissa and Theo will be along shortly.”

Draco nods dumbly. The shock of seeing Lucius withered and diminished has banished his residual feelings of resentment and conflicted hostility toward his father, for the time being; reluctant pity has taken their place. Lucius even hesitates before seating himself at the head of the table, looking hesitantly at Draco as though his son is the rightful possessor of the premier spot. Draco ignores the glance and quickly sits opposite Blaise. A humble Lucius is proving difficult to reconcile.

For once, Draco is grateful for Zabini’s cheerful garrulousness; Blaise fills in the manifest tension and awkwardness with a steady stream of inconsequential patter. Draco develops a keen interest in the subtle patterning of the gold-edged crockery.

The door glides open as Macdolas trots in snappily, announcing, “Lady Malfoy and Master Nott!”; the little steward looks markedly cheerier since their parley, Draco notes with relief.

The men stand as Theo escorts Narcissa to her chair at the foot of the oak wood table, seating her with careful solicitousness. Theo sits down between his hostess and Draco and murmurs a general ‘Good evening’ to the rest of the party.

Macdolas supervises as three underling house elves unobtrusively commence pouring water and bringing in the starter course of moules à la marinière. The ramekins of steamed mussels and onions in a white wine sauce are accompanied by crusty dinner rolls and fresh butter.

Narcissa beams, her refined beauty glowing as she contemplates the company at table. “Good evening, gentlemen. How are you, Blaise dear? It’s delightful to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Malfoy. You are a vision tonight – wouldn’t you agree, Theo?”. Blaise smiles winsomely as Lucius’s brows wrinkle together. Theo warily nods as Narcissa deflects Blaise’s fulsomeness with a little laugh.

“Nonsense, dear; and do call me Narcissa. We needn’t stand on ceremony.” She turns to Draco, sapphire eyes sparkling.

“It’s a shame your new lady friend couldn’t join us tonight, Draco. I’m dying to be introduced… and she would have nicely rounded out our dinner party,” Narcissa waves at the empty seat beside Blaise.

 _And so it begins_. Draco braces himself for the Malfoy version of thumbscrews and salt.

Predictably, Blaise adds fuel to the flames.

“Oh, so Draco’s confessed the identity of his paramour, Narcissa? He’s being dreadfully reticent with Theo and me. Although… just today I heard a captivating tale about an incident in the Wizengamot Administration Office –“

 _Loose-lipped son of a bludger_! Draco aims a desperate savage kick at Zabini beneath the table, unfortunately missing him altogether and colliding with his father’s limb instead.

“Hell’s bloody bells!” Lucius winces in pain as his lacquered cane clatters to the floor; he rubs at his right knee cap as Narcissa half-rises in worry.

Draco hastens to apologize.

“My apologies, Lucius – I – I had a cramp,” Draco dissembles. Mouth set in a hard line, he blazes a malevolent glare at Blaise. 

“It has been known to happen,” Lucius stiffly concedes as Draco bends to retrieve the dropped walking stick, handing it back to his father. Lucius tips his silver head in wordless thanks.

Racking his rattled brain for suitable topics of conversation to engage and distract his mother from Blaise’s puckish revelations, Draco is infinitely relieved when Theo steps in.

“The mussels are delicious, Lady Malfoy – is this a pinot grigio white wine sauce?” Theo politely enquires.

“Why yes it is, Theodore. You must have a superior palate, to identify the varietal from the sauce alone,” Narcissa comments admiringly. “And remember – it’s ‘Narcissa’, please,” she chides.

“Have you chosen to refrain from pairing the superlative menu with matching wines tonight so as not to detract from the complexity of the food, Narcissa?” Blaise asks, tapping at the water in his crystal goblet.

Narcissa’s smile disappears. She hesitates before quietly replying, “I must confess that we’ve become quite… abstemious during our… reclusion, Blaise.” She frets at her linen napkin as Theo turns his curly head, looking searchingly at the man gone rigid beside him. Draco concentrates on capturing the last spoonful of creamy broth, head down bent.

“I could ask Macdolas to fetch you a glass of an appropriate vintage if you’d like? Theodore, would you care for any?” Narcissa offers apologetically.

“Blaise is being unconscionably rude, Mother – pay him no heed,” Draco states colourlessly. “Please do not trouble yourself with having any wine fetched. Water is fine.” His left fist is itching to thump Blaise’s strong nose; he clamps it to his leg and scowls across the table. Theo directs his own green glare at Zabini.

For once, Blaise looks abashed. “My apologies, Narcissa – I never intended to be rude or make you feel uncomfortable. The meal is lovely, and I am honoured to be here.”

Narcissa smiles as the tension eases. “Goodness, we are all terribly contrite tonight! Let us talk of something lighter, hmm? Tell me, Theodore – do you still enjoy spending half your year in Germany? Is your grandmother in good health?”.

Theo’s pellucid skin flushes slightly beneath Narcissa’s gracious attention. He begins to talk quietly of recently touring Greater Saxony, and his grandmother’s improved eyesight since he convinced her to undergo cataract treatments.

Draco tunes out as the entrees are replaced by the main course: roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, mixed vegetables, and gravy. He recognizes it as another of his father’s favourite dishes; Narcissa is determined to celebrate the night any way she can.

Gazing at Lucius in his peripheral vision, Draco is struck anew by the drastic shift in his appearance. His father hasn’t joined in the conversation, but is silently taking in every word. His colour has improved from ‘cadaverous’ to merely ‘peaky’; but Draco is rocked by how… _whittled down_ he looks. 

To now describe Lucius as villainous is simply laughable. The loss of his wand, freedom, and pride - perhaps even the loss of his son – has stripped him down to a mere mortal. There are new lines of pain etched into his high forehead and pale cheeks. Draco swallows uncomfortably at the unarguable evidence of his father’s anguish.

 _I cannot excuse what he’s done_ , he thinks agitatedly. _But I can’t continue to despise this broken man, either._

Lost in pensive contemplation, Draco startles as a dessert bowl is placed in front of him. Raspberry bread-and-butter pudding: another of Lucius’s favoured dishes.

And unfortunately, the recent receptacle for Macdolas’s bejewelled (and rejected) token of affection. Draco prods circumspectly at the glossy, berry-spiked sweet. _Surely someone returned it to Macdolas?_

 _With any luck, Zabini will choke on it_. The malicious wish briefly curls up the corners of his mouth.

Narcissa is waxing lyrical about Theo and Draco’s childhood escapades about the Manor, Blaise egging her on to tell one embarrassing anecdote after another. She exclaims, “Oh! I _know_ I have a photograph of the time they dressed up as crones for Hallowe’en! It’s in my chamber – I’ll just run and fetch it,” and she excuses herself, feigning deafness to Draco’s vigorous objection.

The moment Narcissa leaves the room, Lucius icily addresses Theo.

“Master Nott – I may no longer be in possession of a wand; but if you do not cease casting sheep’s eyes at my wife, I will box you about the ears with my cane, regardless of the consequences.”

Theo’s face mottles in mortification as he hotly denies the charge.

“I assure you I have only the greatest respect and admiration for Lady Malfoy. It is true that I consider her kindness, spirit, and beauty as the yardstick for desirable attributes in a witch; but I have never acted inappropriately towards her,” he angrily asserts. “Nor will I.”

Lucius is unappeased.

“I’m well aware that you have long harboured a mawkish, adolescent crush on my spouse, Nott – but rest assured it will never be reciprocated. My wife’s fidelity is unequivocal. Find your own witch,” he snarls, with a ghost of his old arrogant command.

“That’s enough, Lucius.” Draco’s headache is rapidly worsening. _Will this wretched day never end?_

“Theo has always seen Narcissa as a surrogate mother figure – you are letting your paranoid jealousy run amok. Can’t you see how she is stifled and starved for human company? Are you that petty, to begrudge her the smallest of social interactions? She’s kept you company in your exiled cage for long enough. If you are as secure in her love as you claim to be, you’d welcome the chance to make her happier,” Draco sternly informs his father.

He crosses his arms and leans closer, determined to salvage something useful from the heinous day. This morning’s meeting with Potter had served to heighten his sense of growing unease at the true depths of the danger Hermione is in. There are a multitude of worrying questions about this sordid plot – and Draco is increasingly desperate for answers.

 _I cannot allow any harm to befall her._ Draco fights to dampen his panic at the thought.

“Now that I have your attention, Lucius – you’re going to join me, Blaise, and Theo in the study after dinner… and you’re going to tell me everything you know about your old Death Eater pals’ penchants for illegal lust potions, abduction, rape, and forced breeding…’

Draco pauses as Lucius’s sulky, snotty expression shifts to bewilderment, then apprehension.

“… because we’re not leaving here until you do.”


	18. Zest

__

_Saturday 01 March 2003: PM_

Pop music blasts from the little radio as Hermione indulges in a carefree jig around her tiny kitchen. She’d woken at first light this morning, uncustomarily choosing to snuggle back under the warm covers, and had spent a good half hour meditating on the wacky state of her life at present.

 _Sex, drugs… all that’s missing is the rock ‘n’ roll_. A mental image of Draco as the snake-hipped lead singer of an angst-rich alternative rock band had popped into Hermione’s head and made her giggle. In-built scowl and swagger. Leather wristbands to complement his platinum and silver jewellery. Tight black jeans and t-shirts showcasing his sculpted muscles and classic male mesomorph physique…

 _Damn - that glorious, tall, muscled body… and his archangelic face, electric blond hair, intense pewter eyes…_ Hermione had lost uncounted moments fondly reviewing the heady attributes of a naked Draco. Admittedly, she’s not had any leisurely opportunities to study Malfoy sans apparel; she’s been too occupied being expertly guided into one stupendous orgasm after another by the sexy blond.

She’d propped herself upright at that point in her musings, brows knitting at that unalienable fact. Apart from Hermione’s decision to turn up uninvited at Draco’s door after dinner at Harry’s – Draco has called all the shots.

And even though Draco was spot-on when he’d mentioned her unexpressed desire to be physically submissive, Hermione had decided that it was past time she took back some sexual power in their ‘not-relationship’. So she’d jumped out of bed and hurried to owl Draco, asking him to Floo to her flat for dinner at seven o’clock.

_I need a home-ground advantage… and a Slytherin-worthy cunning plan._

Which is why Hermione is currently dancing happily around her kitchen as she puts the finishing touches on her homemade lasagne, garlic bread baguette and garden salad. The little wall clock shows 6.15PM: _perfect_. She has enough time to have a shower and change into something a little more stylish than her holey tracksuit bottoms and a passata-speckled old Beauty and the Beast long-sleeved tee.

The radio starts playing a new song; Hermione bobs her head to the familiar intro beat as she sprinkles a combination of parmesan and mozzarella cheese atop the lasagne. Sliding the finished dish into the oven, she lustily belts out the second half of the famous Spice Girls’ chorus, spinning around the table with more enthusiasm than dancing prowess. Hermione uses the sauce-stained wooden spoon as a makeshift microphone as she warbles along:

‘So tell me what you want, what you really, really want  
I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha)  
I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah…’

The extended ‘ah’ has just left Hermione’s lips when her peripheral vision registers she is no longer alone; squawking in fright, she hurls the spoon-microphone in the general direction of the intruder leaning lazily against the kitchen doorway.

It misses Draco by a country mile, bouncing off the pantry cupboard before landing to spin at his feet. And the rotter is laughing uproariously - bent forward, and hugging his sides as if to hold in the hilarity.

“You sneaky creeper, Malfoy!” Hermione’s heart is galloping from the adrenaline rush and relief at the identity of her ‘intruder’. “What if I’d been holding a knife instead of a spoon?”

“Unless you’ve secretly taken a knife-throwing course, I’d still be in no danger,” Draco assures (once he’s finished chuckling). He crouches to retrieve the wooden implement, strolling over to hand it to Hermione before sliding his hands onto her hips.

She stands stiffly in his arms, face flaming at being caught unawares as she’d pranced and trilled like a silly adolescent in front of _Top of the Pops_. Malfoy continues with his teasing.

“Dinner and a show – I’m a lucky man,” Draco jests, smiling down into her aggrieved face. “A shame that Hogwarts never held a talent show, Granger – you’ve been hiding your theatrical light under a bushel, hmm?”.

“Up yours, Malfoy,” Hermione retorts without much spice. Draco’s hands are stroking the sides of her neck and the sweet spot behind her ears, which is working wonders to mitigate her antagonism at his ribbing.

“I was performing a modern classic, I’ll have you know. _Flawlessly_ ,” she adds, folding in her lips as she tries not to smile.

“I will admit that your cute little bum wiggle finale was a highlight of the production,” Draco trails his left hand down to her pert rump, squeezing gently for emphasis before his attention returns to Hermione’s ears and throat.

Hermione pulls away from the hypnotic glide of Draco’s fingertips on her shivery lobes as a thought strikes.

“Why are you here early, Malfoy? Did the ink in my letter smudge… I thought I specified 7.00PM?”

Draco looks sheepish. “I was desperate to escape the townhouse – I’ve been invaded by a well-meaning little domestic dictator… and it’s entirely my own idiotic doing.”

He shrugs wearily at Hermione’s quizzical expression. “I’ll explain all over dinner, if you don’t mind. Speaking of which – it smells scrumptious in here. What are we having?” Draco tries to peer around Hermione at the semi-transparent oven door, but she hip-checks him with a grin.

“Uh-uh. Shifty intruders will get what they’re given, and be thankful for it,” Hermione primly replies.

His mien sobers. “I didn’t mean to startle or scare you, Granger - I called out when I arrived, but you mustn’t have heard me over the blaring music. It was thoughtless of me, especially considering the worrisome situation you’re experiencing. I apologize.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy – I know you weren’t actively trying to frighten me. I pulled the trajectory of the spoon-spear at the last moment, by the way,” Hermione jokes as she attempts to lighten the mood. “Never underestimate an angry woman armed with a kitchen utensil.”

His frown doesn’t budge. “That’s another topic I wish to examine – your defensive abilities. Both magical and Muggle. But that, too, can wait until dinner.”

Draco flattens his thumbs against Hermione’s parted peony-pink lips to discourage her ineluctable argument. He softly traces the borders of her mouth as Hermione involuntarily closes her eyes, her contentious impulse lost as her breathing quickens and her blood sings.

Before she completely forgets herself to Draco’s virtuoso touch, Hermione’s disparaging inner voice chips in, reminding her that she had (only this morning) vowed to withstand Malfoy’s seductive powers and regain control… and this easy capitulation is a poor exhibition of that pledge.

Hermione captures Draco’s deft fingers with her right hand, dropping them back to his side before she flounces back to the oven. She catches sight of her reflection in the glass door and suppresses a wheeze of horror at the sight; she’d forgotten she is still wearing her soiled and bedraggled comfortable ‘house’ clothes or that her hair is roughly bundled into a rickety, lopsided topknot.

_I look like something the cat dragged in, chewed on, and yakked back up!_

She rushes to sidle past Draco, but his superior reflexes halt her momentum; she stumbles against his hard chest as his arms quickly steady her.

“Where are you hurtling off to now, Granger?”

“You’re too early – I had intended to shower and dress in something other than rags before you got here!” Hermione crossly replies.

“No need to stress, Granger - you’d look stunning in a flour sack,” Draco casually remarks, pecking a kiss on her crinkled nose.

“Shall I prepare the salad while you’re bathing?” he nods to the vegetables already arranged on the heavy wooden chopping board. He releases her and saunters to the cramped bench without waiting for a reply.

“Um – OK – thanks,” Hermione muddles out the words, knocked off balance as usual by Draco’s unwonted compliments. “I’ll be back in time to put the garlic bread in the oven,” and she bolts for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione is shower-fresh after zipping through her usual bathing routine; she remains a tad ruffled after Draco caught her unawares - skipping about her kitchen like a scatterbrained teenager. Which explains why she is still wrapped in a towel, rummaging through the entire contents of her modest wardrobe as if the perfect outfit is somehow contained within.

She curbs her jittery shuffling of garments as she realizes the depths of her stupidity. _This is not a date. Draco Malfoy is not my boyfriend. He would probably be most impressed if I walked out wearing nothing but a tiny apron. Or the flour sack he’d mentioned._

The self-remonstration gives her a nasty pang; Hermione chalks it up to disgust at her own foolish crossing of the clear boundaries of their sexual liaison. After selecting and donning a matched set of lacy white underwear (demure at first glance, until one notices the balconette bra and the skimpy rear cut of the knickers), she grabs the first pair of jeans she spies on her clothing-strewn bed, teaming them with a soft vee-necked baby aqua fuzzy jumper over a plain white t-shirt. She jams a pair of trusty ballet flats on her feet, wincing a little as she ruthlessly brushes her hair into a loose, smooth(ish) side ponytail. Final touches are a scoop of facial moisturiser and a quick pass of cherry-flavoured lip balm.

 _There. Sorted. It’s not like I can ever compete with Malfoy in the fashion stakes, even if I wanted to_ , Hermione sighs. He looks as effortlessly stylish as ever tonight in his indigo jeans and buttoned-down dark lapis lazuli shirt flecked with a tiny white pattern she couldn’t quite make out in the kitchen.

 _As slick as if the cat had licked him_. She smirks, spirits renewed as she mulls over her plan to turn the tables on Draco later tonight.

Sashaying back into the kitchen, Hermione blinks as she takes in how Draco has occupied his time since she left to bathe. Not only has he prepared and dressed the garden salad (more expertly than she could have, not that she will tell him so); he has lain the plain white tablecloth she left folded on the bench, set the cutlery, plates and glassware and is picking up the buttery baguette as she enters.

Hermione bumps Draco gently with her hip as she snatches the foil-covered bread from his long fingers. “I’ve got this, Malfoy – you haven’t left me much else to do,” she chides.

She gestures to the far seat of her little square table. “Have a seat – it will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

Draco waits for Hermione to push the garlic bread into the oven and seat herself before he obliges; he pours her water from the jug before helping himself. A weird moment elapses as they stare silently at one another. The intensity in Draco’s steel-grey eyes is unnerving, coupled with the impassivity of his features.

“You mentioned having a problematic house guest?” Hermione prompts, shifting a little in her chair; she is anxious to dissolve this loaded tension.

Draco shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “I suppose I shouldn’t have described him thus; he is just awfully eager to please and almost impossible to dissuade from his earnest endeavours. A pint-sized powerhouse.”

“You’re making a hash of enlightening me here, Malfoy,” Hermione dryly remarks.

“Patience, Granger – I’m deciding the best way to couch my proposition.”

 _Malfoy and his ‘propositions’._ She could write a three-foot essay on the subject. Hermione resists rolling her eyes and stays mum.

“I’ll give you the back story first – so you can best understand how you’d be doing me the favour.” Draco is unusually diffident, which immediately raises Hermione’s suspicions.

“Go on.” She eases back on her impatient tone. _We’ll be here until Christmas at this rate._

“For the past four - nearly five - years, Macdolas and Ruibby have been the head house elves at Malfoy Manor; steward and housekeeper, respectively. I hired them around the same time and Macdolas lost his heart to Ruibby the very moment he spotted her walking into the atrium…”

Draco concisely sketches a brief but thorough history of the little elves’ topsy-turvy ‘romance’ since their hires, interrupted only by the peremptory ding of the oven timer.

They work together to bring the hot food to the table; Hermione makes an exaggerated show of putting on a pair of well-padded maroon oven mitts before she pulls out the heavy dish of piping hot lasagne. Malfoy laughs good-naturedly but chooses not to comment on her cheekiness. After she transfers the pasta to the table, Hermione keeps the oven open to slide in the dessert dish.

“Thank you, Granger. This looks and smells marvellous,” Draco comments approvingly as he accepts a thick wedge of saucy, meaty noodles. “I appreciate you taking the trouble.”

Hermione’s fine-boned hands pause as she wields the salad serving set; she replies offhandedly, “Isn’t it about time I returned your hospitality and generosity, Malfoy? And didn’t you recently inform me that meals are provided to ensure ‘sufficient energy for our libidinous activities’?” she winks as she paraphrases his own explanation.

“Have you ever forgotten _anything_?” Draco mock-grumbles.

“Yes – the passing of time when I’m reading,” Hermione admits, softly chuckling. “Madam Pince was forever hounding me out of her precious library, especially in Sixth –“

She chokes back the final word of the sentence; Draco quietly finishes it for her.

“ – Year. You don’t have to censor your conversation to spare my ‘tender sensibilities’, Granger.” His voice is supremely emotionless. “Best not to bury the past – it only comes back to bite you on the bum.”

Draco’s “Believe me, I know” is barely a whisper as he concentrates on refilling their tumblers and not making eye contact.

Hermione hurriedly changes the subject. “I’ve been rabbiting on a bit, sorry; you were going to tell me more about Macdolas and Ruibby, please?”

He huffs cheerlessly before accepting her olive branch.

“Right. Well, I arrived early for dinner at the Manor last night and was reluctantly embroiled in the latest histrionics… “ Draco continues the tale of his grudging, improvised role as an elf relationship counsellor and the ‘Ring in the Raspberry Pudding Debacle’.

Hermione is laughing helplessly, gasping out the question, “But did anyone extract the ring from the pudding before it was served? Or did somebody actually _swallow_ it?!?”

“That was _my_ first thought!” Draco joins her in merriment. “I couldn’t do more than poke at my portion for worrying I’d accidentally ingest the ill-fated thing!” His even white teeth flash, head tipped back as he laughs at the memory.

 _Mum and Dad would rhapsodize over Draco’s perfect dentition_. The thought jumps into Hermione’s consciousness without warning. She bats it aside as random nonsense.

“No one choked at dinner – I was hoping Blaise might need to be heartily thumped on the back, so that was disappointing – and before we retired to the study, I took Macdolas aside. He indignantly confirmed he’d retrieved the jewellery and meticulously washed it before returning it to its box.”

Smiling easily now, Draco looks keenly across the small table. “Which brings me back to my proposition, Granger.” He precisely lays down his flatware onto his mostly-empty plate and leans closer; his denim-shod knee brushes against her own. He lets it rest, the warm tingle spreading to Hermione’s limb despite the layers of clothing between them.

“I’ve painted myself into a corner with Macdolas – he returned with me to the townhouse last night and he’s already cleaned everything… twice. The silverware… thrice. He was starching my _underpants_ when I fled, for the love of snakes. You have to help me, Granger.”

Hermione eyes the man; Draco does look somewhat desperate as he rubs lightly at his temples.

“What is it you would have me do, Malfoy?” she warily asks. “My flat could fit into your townhouse six or seven times over; Macdolas will make short work of any chores.”

Draco straightens, bridging the negligible distance betwixt them to curl his hand around hers. “I want you to accept Macdolas as your personal… security specialist,” he firmly declares, thumbing the delicate skin of her inner wrist in a sensual pattern.

“As my… as my _what_?” Hermione jerks free her hand – he must be doing this on purpose, knowing his touch makes her a bit stupid and therefore susceptible to his crafty plots.

“I want Macdolas to stay here, with you. Whenever you’re not at work, or with me or Potter,” Draco authoritatively clarifies.

Her ire sparks immediately as Hermione catches on. “Oh, really?” she queries, tone deceptively silky. “You’ve decided on this course, have you? You and your new bestie… _Harry Potter_?”

Hermione lets the sarcasm seep in as Draco fails to keep the horrified scorn off his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Granger,” he brusquely clips out the words. “Although I guarantee Potter will agree that this is an elegant solution to secure your continued safety.”

Hermione could scream with frustration. _Men trying to run my life… No. Sodding. Way._

She opens her mouth to vociferously protest - but Draco presses on, ignoring her simmering resentment.

“As to the other topic to be addressed: we need to start revisiting some DADA training together. Potter can assist you there too, I suppose.” Draco concedes the last with a sour pucker to his sensuous mouth.

“Plus, we’ll cover basic physical self-defence techniques; they will be essential if your magic is nullified again. If any of these bastards come after you, I want you to be willing and able to gouge out their filthy eyes and rip off their cursed testicles!” Draco growls, throttling the wooden salt and pepper shakers in both hands.

 _Heavens_. Hermione’s temper is momentarily damped by Malfoy’s patent savagery. She cautiously tugs the hapless shakers from his bruising grip.

She chooses her next words with care.

“Malfoy, I do appreciate your assistance, and your concerns for my safety… but you **cannot** just charge about making these choices for me. I’m not a scared little girl. You can’t tell me I’m capable of ruling the world, only to sweep in and announce that you’ve decided I must accept an elfish bodyguard and self-defence lessons _without prior consultation_.”

Draco’s pale face blanks as her determined response hits home. “I apologize – it was not my intention to railroad you,” he stiffly enunciates.

“I know. Have you considered simply _asking_ me if I’m willing to try your suggestions?” Hermione bites the inside of her cheeks with her molars at Draco’s bemused, astonished expression.

“You’re saying… you’re not opposed to the ideas?”

His flabbergasted look almost unleashes Hermione’s laughter. She thanks the stars she wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Automatic entitlement must be a difficult mindset to shake.

She nods. “I’m willing to discuss the possibilities, yes. But don’t order me about, Malfoy. It doesn’t end well.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Draco muses. He tilts his argent head slightly. His next utterance catches Hermione by surprise.

“Is that what happened with the Weasel on Friday morning, Granger?” Malfoy’s fisted hands belie his nonchalant question. Something… uncivilized lurks in the depths of his smoky eyes as they fix upon Hermione’s face.

“What – what do you mean?” Hermione stalls. She really doesn’t wish to revisit the humiliation of publicly rowing with Ron in the middle of her office… and inadvertently, in front of her current lover.

PING! The oven timer sounds once more – the dessert is ready.

 _Thank Merlin_. She hastens to turn her back on Draco’s penetrating gaze, slipping on the oven mitts to transfer the final course to the table. Draco collects the used crockery and silverware to place into the single sink on his own initiative; Hermione keeps her face averted as she gathers bowls, spoons, and presses ‘Heat’ on the jug of custard waiting in the microwave.

“I hope you don’t mind the custard not being heated on the stovetop – I’ve found it’s easier this way, and it doesn’t seem to affect the taste…” she blathers.

“I couldn’t give a toss for your custard heating methods. What’s the problem, Granger? Too chicken to tell me you’ve decided to patch up your tattered relationship with Weasley, after all?” Draco’s voice is pure ice behind her.

“What? No! How could you think that, Malfoy – I thought you overheard our argument? I told Ron we’re over. Done. Finito. Kaput. If you _must_ know,” Hermione scathingly reveals. Her hands tremble as she ladles generous scoops of pudding into their bowls, working on auto pilot. She slams the jug of warm custard onto the table with more force than necessary, feeling her cheeks burn.

Hermione has a final stab at defending her integrity. “I told you that I am not a cheat… it hurts me that you’re quick to jump to the wrong conclusions about my morals and intentions, Malfoy. Calling me a coward… that’s low.”

She reaches blindly for the custard, before she can grasp its handle, Draco is kneeling at her side. He gathers her hands gently, folding them beneath his.

Contrition husks his voice. “I’m sorry, Granger – I overreacted. You didn’t answer straightaway and I thought the worst. I’m an arse.” He drags in a rough breath, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles before softly kissing each little joint.

“And I’m jealous.” Draco’s confession is a subdued whisper that Hermione scarcely registers at first. But he rocks back on his heels, slanting back his silvery head to stare straight into her shocked dark cocoa eyes.

“I’m jealous,” he repeats in a firmer tone. “The thought of Weasley touching you… it makes me savage. Feral. I’m not proud of it – and I’m sorry that you bore the brunt of my misplaced negative emotion. Again,” he grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

Speechless, Hermione doesn’t resist as Draco drops a final kiss on each of her wrists, before returning her hands to the table as he rises and sits back in his chair. He silently picks up his spoon, watching her and waiting until she has dumbly copied his move; Hermione mechanically begins consuming the sweet.

The clink of cutlery against china is the only sound in the room. Hermione peeps at Draco from beneath her eyelashes; she is dumbfounded by his admission.

 _Jealous… he’s jealous… **jealous** …_ the words swim in her brain like a school of goldfish.

“Granger – what are we eating?”

Hermione clears her throat. “It’s called Eve’s Pudding… is it not to your liking? Don’t feel that you have to eat it –“ she reaches to drag away Malfoy’s bowl, but he stops her slim hand with a gentle squeeze.

“It’s absolutely delectable,” Malfoy smiles in warm appreciation.

“Oh. Well, it’s basically just – “

“ – stewed Granny Smith apples and sponge,” Draco finishes. “You made me a green apple dessert. Because you know they’re my favourite,” he confidently adds.

Hermione can’t resist blowing a raspberry at the smug bugger.

“Get over yourself, fancy pants. Almost everyone loves apple desserts,” she dismisses his knowing smirk.

Silence enfolds them again, but the stress of their bickering has eased. Hermione hopes that her next question won’t upset the apple cart again ( _Hah_ ).

She asks it anyway.

“Malfoy, what happened after I left on Friday morning? With Ron?” she trains a steady gaze on her dining companion as she awaits his reply.

The corners of Draco’s lips twitch; upward in humour, Hermione is relieved to see.

“Your supervisor whisked out of her office and ordered the Weasel to leave. She practically took him by the ear to march him out, actually.” Draco allows his grin to properly bloom. “Ron made some rather unflattering – and unimaginative – aspersions on my parentage and ability to self-pleasure that your manager overheard, apparently.’

“I didn’t have to lift a finger to discipline the mouthy git, if that’s been worrying you, Granger.” Draco applies himself to finishing his apple pudding and custard.

As an afterthought, he queries: “Didn’t your fellow workers tell you what happened?”

“Well… we’re not close. The atmosphere is more professional than collegial,” Hermione hedges. She isn’t about to admit to Draco that her work days are mostly friendless (excepting Harry). Being a sad sack in the office is not something she wants to bandy about.

Draco doesn’t say anything, but Hermione loathes the hint of pity in his expression. She rises briskly to set about clearing the table.

“Would you like to have a seat in the lounge room while I deal with this?” Hermione composedly enquires. She pre-empts Draco’s attempt to assist by nabbing his empty bowl and spoon and shooing him away; she resists the temptation to let her hand linger on his warm, broad back as she pushes him gently in the direction of the living room.

“No, I insist – you never allow me to help clean up.”

“Mmm… but you did disobey me by washing up Wednesday night’s dirty dishes on Thursday morning, didn’t you? Naughty of you, Granger,” Draco’s eyes take on a familiar predatory gleam.

 _Nope. Not going to be swayed from my ‘take control’ plan by this sexy serpent_ , Hermione chants to herself. She twists the nearest tea towel and flicks it at Malfoy as he slinks back toward her.

“Stop – my tea towel prowess is vastly superior to my spoon-throwing skills,” Hermione warns, trying not to giggle. “Wait for me out there – I have a surprise for you.”

Draco slides his hands into his jeans pockets, running his tongue over his teeth as he contemplates his next move. Hermione is relieved when he shrugs and turns for the doorway.

It doesn’t take her long to clear and pack away the leftovers; she leaves the dishes rinsed and piled in the sink for tomorrow.

Gulping down half a glass of water, Hermione wills herself not to lose her nerve. She quickly strips down to her swan-white lacy lingerie, stalling for her nerves’ sake as she neatly folds her discarded clothing atop the nearest chair.

 _You can do this. You want to do this. You **will** do this. _Hermione hoists back her shoulders and struts out of the little kitchen and into the lounge with borrowed aplomb.

Draco is seated on the Chesterfield, idly thumbing through a book she’d consulted earlier today: _The Big Book of Spells & Charms for the Textile Arts_. He hears her enter but doesn’t immediately look up.

“Have you taken up embroidery, Granger? Makes sense – you’re adept at needling me,” he jokes; his chuckle dies mid-gurgle as Draco looks up from beneath his powder-white flopped fringe. Hermione’s jitters ease remarkably as the thick tome drops unheeded from Draco’s now-slack grasp and tumbles gently to the floor.

His greedy eyes traverse her scantily-clad figure, absorbing every last inch of her fine-grained, golden skin; mapping every freckle and curve as Hermione sways closer, until she is just out of reach of Draco’s seeking hands.

“Like what you see, Malfoy?” Hermione purrs, mimicking as best she can Draco’s own past words and sultry pitch. She mentally stomps down on the inner voice of doubt currently whining that she looks woefully pretentious while playing at being a vamp.

Draco’s expression certainly helps; he appears equal parts dumbstruck and feverishly aroused. His slightly parted lips exhale ragged breaths as his glistening graphite eyes fixate on the extra expanse of creamy, aureate breasts displayed by the upthrust of the balconette brassiere. He makes an unintelligible noise somewhere between a groan and a grunt when Hermione firmly knocks away his questing hand.

“Here’s the deal, Malfoy… tonight, we play by my rules. That means no touching, no kissing, no speaking – unless I tell you to.” Hermione is delighting in this role play, now that her shyness and apprehension have evaporated.

“Are you willing to comply? Or should I go back to the kitchen and get dressed?” she taunts, fluttering her mahogany eyelashes in faux innocence.

“Unghh…” Draco croaks, before remembering the last rule; he nods vigorously and crimps his powerful hands against his restlessly shifting thighs. His chest is compressing and expanding like a bellowing piano accordion.

Hermione prolongs her provocative descent into Draco’s spread lap for as long as possible; she unnecessarily nudges against his impressive hardness as she makes a production of settling comfortably, sliding her bare arms to his chest and neck. Her left hand cards through the shorter hair at the base of Malfoy’s skull as she brings her blossom-pink lips to hover beside his mouth.

“Ready or not… here I come…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song excerpt in this chapter is from ‘Wannabe’ by The Spice Girls.  
> Credit to Songwriters: Melanie Chisholm / Geri Halliwell / Victoria Beckham / Emma Bunton / Melanie Brown / Matthew Paul Rowbottom / Richard Stannard.


	19. Dominion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: this chapter contains explicit sexual content**

__

_Saturday 01 March 2003: PM_

“Ready or not… here I come…”

Hermione traces the outline of Draco’s warm, full mouth with the cranberry-coloured tip of her tongue; she keeps her eyes linked with his, licking delicately and oh, so unhurriedly… revelling in the microscopic change of texture as she moves along the very edge of his pouted lower lip.

 _Vermilion border – that’s its anatomical name_ , Hermione suddenly recalls. Her childhood obsession with reading every line of printed text in the house is paying small dividends at last; the dry terms she’d assimilated from her parents’ dentistry textbooks are flooding back to her. She whispers them to Draco – mostly to prolong her torturously languid exploration of his passive, panting mouth as she intersperses spoken facts with skimming gossamer kisses.

“This is your mentolabial sulcus, Malfoy,” she kisses the bump and valley betwixt his sharp chin and lower lip.

“Oral commissures – “ darting her tongue at each corner extremity as Draco opens his mouth wider, breathing stuttered.

“Upper vermilion border…” Draco’s almost-invisible ‘five o’clock shadow’ stubble prickles against her adventuring tongue tip; the contrast in sensation makes them both gasp a little.

“Philtrum… or Cupid’s bow – “ Hermione somehow downshifts another gear; it’s no hardship, as the accentuated grooves beneath Draco’s nose and the shapely central dip have frequently captured her attention. Slow as pouring treacle, she moves further south.

“Procheilon – “ She tickles the slight nodular projection at the bottom centre of his open upper lip, before abandoning her spontaneous anatomy lesson altogether as she uninhibitedly sucks and nips at Malfoy’s beautiful lips, her hands cradling his head in place for her marauding mouth.

Draco’s initial lack of returning pressure causes Hermione’s doubts to storm back in threefold; until she notices his short nails are gouging harsh indents into the sofa and he is whining with frustration and need.

 _Of course!_ She hasn’t yet granted Draco permission to do anything. Hardly out of the gates before her seductress persona falls down. Hermione hurries to correct her rookie error.

“Kiss me back, Malfoy,” she breathily commands.

It’s dumbfounding how skilled the man’s mouth is, Hermione wonders dazedly. Draco is swiftly clawing back all her hard-fought ground, solely armed with his expert kissing abilities; his hands remain hard knots against his thighs as he alternates between grazing pecks and blazing suckles of her already-swollen lips.

Hermione allows the exquisite ravishment to continue for a few more moments before breaking contact; she steadies her shaky arms on his heaving shoulders as she struggles to regain the upper hand.

 _Right. Time for Phase Two_. Hermione slides off Malfoy’s lap, ignoring his growl of dissent. She locks her wobbly knees before taking another backward step.

Draco looks like a caged jaguar; his eyes are flinty with arousal and furious disgruntlement. He snaps shut his rubescent mouth with a low snarl.

“Stand up,” Hermione almost adds, ‘please’ – but stops herself just in time. _Femme fatales don’t ask nicely, you ninny._

He bolts to his feet so fast he almost stumbles on the bulky forgotten spell manual by his feet. Hermione helpfully nudges it beneath the coffee table with her bare foot.

She risks stepping forward into him, bumping her lower body against Malfoy’s sinewy thighs. He pushes against her minutely, stilling as she tsks disapprovingly.

“Don’t move. I’m going to undress you now.” Hermione’s quavery fingers fumble at his collar; she takes a moment to regroup as Draco’s throat bobs in a hard swallow. She avoids looking at his face, for fear she’ll succumb to his passionate regard; she mustn’t jettison all her carefully-laid plans simply because Malfoy is nigh-irresistible.

The room shrinks down to their arrhythmic breathing and each painstakingly-exposed half-inch of Draco’s cream skin; Hermione’s digits gain confidence with each freed button. She checks her yen to run her palms across the tempting valley of silken flesh until his lapis lazuli shirt is fully undone and tugged loose of his jeans and belt.

 _Acorns – they’re acorns._ Hermione’s wide eyes now recognize the miniscule pattern stippling Draco’s shirt. She sets aside her random cognition to hesitantly lay her small palms on Malfoy’s unveiled body; he shudders under her feathered touch, wanton heat arcing between them as Hermione canvasses the strong tendons of Draco’s neck and shoulders.

Hermione stretches to roll the sleeves of his shirt down his sculpted biceps inch by deliberate inch, heedless of Draco’s twitching and soft growling; she leaves the cuffs snagged around his wrists. A detached part of her analytical mind is relieved to see that the now-unbandaged scratches on his left forearm have already healed to dark pink welts.

He can easily yank his arms free, if he so desires; but the effect is just the same.

 _Bound_. Hermione finally capitulates to her screaming desire to rub up against Draco’s bared skin, dragging her nose along his collarbones as she abruptly switches up her pace to feverish. He is an unpainted canvas beneath her brushing hands, his head tipped back in tensed surrender as she lips at the underside of his clenched jaw.

“Am I hurting you?” Hermione husks, worried that she has taken this too far. Draco straightens his head, making no reply beyond an exaggerated twist of his lips. She catches on faster this time.

“Tell me.”

“You’re killing me, Granger – but you’re not hurting me,” Draco rasps. “For the love of Merlin… _don’t stop_.”

The fine tremors shivering Malfoy’s pinned-back shoulders attest to the truth of his statement. Gratified, Hermione reapplies herself to the enviable task of plotting the curves of his hard pectorals and the studded muscles of Draco’s abdomen, swirling frenetic whorls as she delightedly explores the indent of his hips above his dark denims.

Fire is licking along her skin and kindling her flesh as Hermione deftly unbuckles Draco’s tan leather belt, ripping it from its loops with one swift motion. She smiles in satisfaction as she makes short work of unzipping his fly, looking up at Malfoy with a crafty smirk as she curls her hands around the waistband of his jeans and fitted cotton boxers.

Draco makes a strangled wheezy sound as Hermione yanks both items of apparel down to his ankles, kneeling at his feet to loosen the laces of his buff Derby shoes.

She doesn’t look up as she orders, “Sit down, Malfoy.” He thumps onto the Chesterfield before she’s completed pronouncing his name, his surging breaths music to her ears. Hermione tugs off his shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers, pitching them higgledy-piggledy behind her. Her own breaths are quickening and shallow; part of her cannot believe she is capable of – nay, _thriving on_ – this bold sexual dominance. She licks her lips before she finally rocks back on her heels, bookended between Draco’s widespread legs as she absorbs the spectacle before her.

By rights, Malfoy should look ridiculous – nude, excepting the shirt still tangled around wrists propped awkwardly against the back of the lounge. Legs sprawled akimbo, shiny champagne locks mussed by Hermione’s avid fingers. Alabaster skin dappled from blood rush and her greedy little love bites. Impassive mask torn aside, replaced with raw carnality and a dangerous glimmer in his iron grey orbs.

But no. Draco is magnificent: utterly unselfconscious in his nudity despite the awkward, vulnerable pose. He stares at Hermione with shameless hunger as she reaches back to unclasp her bra, before sliding it delicately down the slopes of her shoulders. The ivory balconette cups hang unsupported for a handful of seconds before the entire frothy contraption drifts to the floor.

Hermione copies Draco’s unflappable sangfroid as she makes a production of flipping back her thick chestnut ponytail; her lower abdomen throbs as Draco’s pupils expand at the sight of her unfettered breasts. Going a step further, she cups them in her hands, softly pinching the nipples as a whimper escapes Draco’s clamped mouth.

“Do you want to touch me?” she teases, squeezing her sensitive buds a little firmer.

Draco nods emphatically and attempts to hook his heels behind Hermione’s buttocks to draw her closer.

She laughs at the ploy. “Too bad. You’ve not earned it. Sit still,” she admonishes, keeping her bright cinnamon eyes trained on his face as she lightly scratches her unpainted nails against the tops of his feet, moving up and around Draco’s calves. Down and back up, each pass rising higher than the last until she finds a particularly sweet spot in the rear crease of his knees; Draco groans harshly, slumping in a mini-surrender.

Spreading Malfoy’s legs a tad wider, Hermione trails her fingertips around to his defined quadriceps, marvelling at the tensile strength contained under the sleek, taut skin. She splays her hands ever upward, being careful to avoid his engorged organ for the time being; the way Draco’s cock is jerkily bobbing and straining – and its prodigious length and girth – convey how close the man is to losing his vaunted self-control.

Pressing harder, Hermione massages her way upward until her hands triangulate around his groin. In a raspy whisper, she muses aloud, “Kiss? Or touch? Which would you prefer, hmm?”

Before Draco can do more than gulp helplessly, Hermione presents another solution.

“How about both?” and bends her head to delicately lick away the salty drop of pre-ejaculate beading on the tip, while her left hand slides beneath his heavy ballocks, her right wrapping surely around the base of his shaft, torturing him a little more with an excruciatingly sluggish upward drag.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Hermione ignores Draco’s rule-breaking bellow, intent on punishing him with her hot tongue and nimble fingers instead; she sinks lower, taking him into her willing mouth as best she can. She’s only tried this once or twice before, with uninspiring results; hopefully, Malfoy is already het up enough that he won’t notice or be disappointed with her callow technique.

Judging by the way he is keening and flexing with each swipe of her tongue and firm tugging compression of her hands, Draco is not about to start deducting points for inexperience. She experiments with softly scraping her teeth along his length; Draco’s resultant tortured groan and involuntary jerk encourage her to repeat the motion.

Her senses are overwhelmed, jangling harmoniously as she squeezes her upper thighs together in riotous arousal. He smells amazing – the usual scent of his preferred lemony-slash-woodsy toiletries, overlaid with musk and something intangibly unique. The groans and whimpers leaking from Draco’s closed mouth are music to Hermione’s ears, making each subsequent touch more tailored and assured. The sight of him writhing helplessly at her salacious treatment makes her heartbeat fluctuate and her breathing jag. The variated superficial textures of his legs and groin are endlessly fascinating: crisp hairs on the top of his thighs compared with the lightly fuzzed smoothness of his scrotum, shifting again to the fine, caramel-blond waviness circumscribing his tumid phallus.

As for his taste… salty, spicy, a little peppery, yet sweeter than she’d anticipated; Hermione zealously swirls at Draco’s glans to better ascertain the particular flavour. He soughs deeply, desperately, the knees planted on either side of her vibrating with the force of his rigid control.

“Granger - _please_ …” Draco petitions through his gritted teeth. He tests the fabric bonds at his wrists as she quickly looks up.

 _Phase Three can undergo an improvised adaptation_ , Hermione recklessly decides. She releases Draco from her mouth and fingers with one last purl, unable to resist endowing open-mouthed kisses on his inner thighs as she rises to her feet.

Deliberately chafing her naked breasts against his arms, Hermione unfastens the double buttons on each of Draco’s snarled cuffs, freeing his arms with a rough wrench. The maltreated shirt flies to join its fellow apparel. Hermione’s scanty knickers soon follow.

Draco hasn’t moved since his liberation; his iron-clad control is dented but still holding, Hermione is pleased to note. His eyes are now glowing with barbaric lust as they devour her denuded form.

Masking her own violent impatience, Hermione indolently lowers herself into Draco’s lap, knees braced to the sides. She slides forward until his bulging erection is just shy of her hot core, clinging to his shoulders for balance.

“Touch me…” Hermione softly instructs, tipping back her head and pulling her right hand from Draco’s shoulder to guide him inside, sinking down as he grips her hips and feverishly mouths her elongated neck.

The slow burn build-up has succeeded in boosting their arousal to stratospheric levels; Hermione’s tawny eyes slam shut as her sensitive tissues catch fire, the slight initial sting at Draco’s size and breadth soon easing. Returning her hand to his shoulder, she sets a turbulent, boisterous pace, moaning lustily at how freaking awesome he feels. Draco compulsively palpates every part of her body that he was recently forbidden to touch, alternating butterfly passes with rougher caresses.

Hermione abandons any lingering resolve to take things slowly, bouncing up and down on Draco with little finesse but an abundance of gusto. The panting man beneath her doesn’t seem to object, based on his dynamic thrusts and incoherent grunts of encouragement. Malfoy continues to suckle hot kisses against her skin, occasionally nipping to bruise as Hermione gasps her endorsement. Their damp flesh noisily smacks together, adding to the concupiscent experience. 

They reach their apexes synchronously: Hermione screams unrestrainedly as she spasms in concentric waves of blinding, blazing rapture; Draco pulsing and releasing deep inside her shaking, pleasure-obliterated body as he buries his head in the hollow of her throat, muffling his guttural, ecstatic howl.

Unaccounted minutes pass as they shudder and twitch through their slowly-fading orgasms, slumped in fatigue and tightly twined. Draco’s big hands tremor on Hermione’s dewy back, even as her fingers twitch, running through his dishevelled flaxen mane.

“What the fuck just happened?” Draco croaks dazedly, speaking into the crook of Hermione’s sticky neck. His breathing is yet to slow or regulate.

She lifts her tired head, laughing throatily as she replies, “You just got schooled, Sunshine.”

Kissing the side of Malfoy’s flushed ear, Hermione huskily adds, “Did you not enjoy the lesson?”. A vulnerable side of her personality is asking in earnest; her anxiety about her sexual prowess hasn’t been totally quashed by the evening’s frolic.

“You truly have to ask, Granger? I’m a blissful wreck, witch!” Draco’s incredulous response goes a long way to reassuring Hermione that he relished the role switch as much as she did.

“I still can’t feel my legs… I might have to sleep on this couch tonight,” Malfoy confesses.

“Oh, sorry – that’s probably because I’m too heavy for your lap,” Hermione flurries to remove her weight from Draco’s thighs; he halts her struggle immediately, hugging her close again. 

“No! Don’t be ridiculous,” he softly chides. “Please… don’t move. Not just yet,” he drowsily mumbles the last words; Hermione returns her fingers to ruffle through his damp hair as she complies.

Draco stays pressed against her, his only movement the gradual drooping of his arm against her back. Hermione thinks he may have fallen asleep; she gingerly eases away, eyes irrepressibly drawn to his relaxed, vulnerable face as he reclines laxly against the Chesterfield.

The serenity doesn’t last. Draco cracks open one grumpy eye as Hermione stands on her own tottery feet.

“Told you not to move, woman.”

 _Well. Submissive Draco has left the building._ Hermione shakes her head in mock exasperation.

“C’mon, big boy. Let’s get you to bed before you do fall asleep here,” she tries to haul him uptight, with minimal success.

He resists her urging, gripping her hands as he peers up at her searchingly.

“Do you want me to stay the night? I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure – that is, I can leave - if you’d prefer,” Draco bumbles the words in an astonishingly uncharacteristic fashion.

“What? Of course you’re staying. Get up, and stop spouting rubbish.”

 _OK, so Dominant Hermione is sticking around for the second encore_. She manages to lug Draco to vertical this time; she keeps his hand tightly in hers as she spins on her heel and tows him out of the lounge room, pausing only to turn off the lights.

Draco follows unresistingly until they enter her bedroom; he digs in his heels at the sight of her cherrywood sleigh bed. Hermione misinterprets his mulish stare.

“It’s only a queen-size, but you’ll fit, never fear.” She begins to flip down the jewel-coloured heavy quilt and sheets. Draco remains silently in place.

Hermione turns to him in puzzlement. “Malfoy? What’s wrong?”.

“Did Weasley live here?” he intones in a low rumble. His grim mouth twitches as though he wants to say more, but thinks better of it.

 _Oh. **Ohhh**._ Comprehension dawns in a flash. _Draco said he was jealous – he really meant it._

Mixed emotions roil in her mind; Hermione sets them aside for the time being as she seeks to allay Draco’s fears.

“Ron stayed over occasionally, but we didn’t live together as a couple,” Hermione evenly replies, maintaining steady and sincere eye contact with the (nude) green-eyed monster glowering at the foot of her bed.

“He never slept in this bed though… I bought it after we broke up, last year. Figured it was time I had a grown-up bed – I’d brought over the old one from my bedroom at home,” she explains.

“Are you coming to bed, or not?” she prompts, sliding into the bed herself. Draco stalks forward.

“Budge over – that’s my side,” he haughtily directs. Hermione smothers her smile.

He wastes no time dragging her onto his chest, stroking her hair and forehead with his agile fingers before snapping off the bedside lamp.

“I intend to rally for Round Two, Granger,” Draco announces into the darkened bedroom. “Consider this a short recess.”

“OK, Malfoy,” Hermione snuggles contentedly into his warm, hard body. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Granger… sweet dreams.”

* * *

_Sunday 02 March 2003: AM_

Yawning languidly, Draco rolls over onto his back, tensing his well-used muscles in a full-body stretch. He allows his eyelids to open slowly, as he becomes gradually aware that his left arm isn’t responding to neural signals.

 _Ah. That’s why_. His left limb is trapped beneath Hermione’s slumbering head and is as dead as a doornail from the compressive position. Draco cautiously inches it free; her glorious thatch of glossy hazelnut hair nearly catches on the webbing of his thumb. He holds his breath, using his other hand to gently unwind her curls.

Pins and needles are beginning to bite now; he forcefully rubs the compromised appendage, wincing as sensation returns. Draco presses a single kiss to Hermione’s bared shoulder before he adjusts the bed linens to cover her sleeping form once again. His lean fingers pause as he notes a newly formed hickey at the lateral base of her neck. He smiles in pure masculine satisfaction, absorbed by the delightful recollection of how the little bruise came into existence.

He had indeed ‘rallied’; he’d been pleasurably awoken after midnight by Hermione unconsciously grinding her voluptuous derriere against his increasingly interested cock as they spooned together. She’d been issuing irresistible, desirous little whimpers in her sleep, her hands holding his in place to cup her luscious breasts.

Draco had whispered in Hermione’s shell-like ear, refusing to proceed until she’d been conscious and fully consenting.

“Say what you want, _ma petite_ ,” he’d breathed, making a Herculean effort to not push forward into her eager little body.

She’d finally risen from the last layers of sleep to clearly enunciate, “You – I want you, Malfoy. Please,” she’d added with a quietly inflamed sigh.

Draco had gladly complied with her entreaty, folding her lithe right leg onto his upper thigh, gliding his hands over her skin with firming strokes. Hermione had mewed greedily, upping her backward drives as his rigid staff had dragged through her damp folds. Her breath had hitched when his agile fingers had masterfully explored her clitoris, tweaking and tapping her sensitive pink bud as she’d gasped.

When he’d been absolutely convinced of her readiness, Draco had plunged inside Hermione’s hot core; she’d clamped around him instantaneously, sorely testing his intention to torment the gorgeous witch with an unhurried, controlled rhythm.

His teeth had strenuously clamped together as he’d managed to stave off the impulse to wildly rut together; at least, until Hermione had borne down, moaning deliriously as her tight channel convulsed in powerful paroxysms. Draco had relinquished all pretence of restraint, sinking deep and nipping her neck as he’d joined her in a torrid climax. 

He’d fallen asleep in record time after that; hence, his numbed arm.

 _Not that I’m complaining in the slightest_. Draco turns away after he tucks the quilt to cover Hermione’s nibbled neck.

He casts his squinting gaze about the small room, endeavouring to find a robe or similar garb to protect against the end-of-winter morning chill.

The only garment that is capable of fitting his tall body is hanging off a peg behind the bedroom door. Draco resigns himself to wearing Hermione’s shabby pink flannel dressing gown, for want of better options. His (well, Hermione’s, now) ebon peacoat must be safely stowed in a different wardrobe. This… _thing_ is dreadfully threadbare, with visible signs of repeatedly darned seams and hems. His mother wouldn’t deign it worthy of a polishing rag, for Slytherin’s sake. Draco resolves to source Hermione a proper robe as a top priority.

Tightening the lurid sash, Draco pads quietly out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He walks back to the lounge room, gathering their haphazardly discarded clothing and folding it into a neat pile on the coffee table.

Catching sight of the old-fashioned fireplace, Draco ignores his initial intent to swap the pink monstrosity for his own overcoat; he is struck by the burning need to check Hermione’s wards and potentially strengthen them with his own spellwork. He snatches his wand from the small knapsack he’d stored beside the hearth last night and begins the process.

The security operation is almost complete when Hermione wanders into the room, wearing a simple scarlet sleep set of an oversized t-shirt and loose drawstring pants. Draco holds up one imperious finger for silence as he finishes the warding spell. The final incantation dies away as he turns to face the sleepy-eyed witch.

He forgets he’s still wearing the woefully tatty pink robe until mirth creases Hermione’s face, her breath shuddering as she points at him.

“Heavens to Betsy, Malfoy – have you seen yourself? How did you even get _into_ my dressing gown?” Hermione is clutching the arm of the couch for support as she succumbs to a severe case of the giggles; a wrapped rectangular package falls from under her armpit into the seat of the Chesterfield.

Draco crosses his arms, looking down his straight nose in waspish disapproval.

“Needs must, Granger. Why hasn’t this moth-eaten rag been burnt and its ashes scattered to the four winds years ago?”. He flaps an irritable hand at her continuing chuckles.

“Now that you’ve arisen, Granger – may I ask your permission to introduce you to Macdolas? He was champing at the bit to meet you when I mentioned the possibility of a security detail to him yesterday… and we may as well put his hyperactivity to use and ask him to cook us a hearty breakfast,” Draco admits with a grin.

Hermione sobers, her expression hesitant.

She answers slowly, “Well… yes, I suppose that’s OK…”

“Excellent,” Draco interrupts.

“Macdolas!” He flicks his wand as he speaks.

A loud crack momentarily rends the Sunday morning serenity of the flat as the named house elf Apparates beside the coffee table.

“Yes, Master Malfoy! Macdolas is ready, sir!”. His flittermouse ears quiver with excitation.

Draco’s eyes bug involuntarily at today’s fantastical ‘uniform’: a neon blue and canary yellow vertically-striped satin bolero jacket, midnight blue suede trousers, a black bowler hat, a fob watch on a long gold chain… and… decorative black leather goggles around his neck?

His staggered brain settles on the correct descriptor. _Psychedelic_ _Steampunk_.

 _Dragon’s balls, what’s next?_ Draco wonders.

Macdolas taps one gothic platform-heeled jet black boot, his disproportionately large celadon green eyes never leaving Draco’s dumbstruck face.

“Master Malfoy summoned Macdolas?” he urges.

“Yes – right. Good.” Draco shakes his head in an effort to refocus. “Macdolas, I’d like you to meet your new employer for the next few weeks. This is Ms. Hermione Granger.”

He turns to Hermione to complete the introduction; her pretty candy-pink mouth is agape as she digests Macdolas’s outlandish outfit. Draco jolts as his house elf skids across the wooden floor toward her.

“Your Grace, The Most Honourable and Esteemed Lady Protector and Patroness of Humble House Elves Mistress Hermione Granger!” Macdolas’s high voice reaches a pitch that Draco suspects only the canine inhabitants of the suburb of Bexley can truly appreciate. The elf bows deeply until his pointy proboscis nearly touches Hermione’s bunny-slippered feet.

“Macdolas offers his eternal fealty to Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger, now and forevermore! He is not worthy of the honour, oh no! But Macdolas will serve and protect her Eminent Grace with joy and devotion!” he squeaks, trembling with acute emotion and the strain of holding the near-prostrate pose.

Hermione mouths ‘ _Help_ _me’_ at Draco, her sienna eyes wide in consternation. Draco manfully swallows his burbling amusement, moving to gently assist Macdolas to his feet.

“That’s quite enough, Macdolas – I think you’ve comprehensively covered all the etiquette and allegiance requirements,” he remarks, tongue firmly in cheek. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind preparing a tasty cooked breakfast for us now, please? We can discuss and negotiate the terms of your employment while we eat, hmm?”.

Macdolas nods in emphatic agreement. “With pleasure, Master Malfoy! Macdolas did not realize that Master Malfoy is blessed with Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger’s extraordinary favours! Master Malfoy brings great glory to the House of Malfoy and Macdolas on this fortunate day!”. The overjoyed manikin capers gleefully toward the kitchen in his chunky boots.

Draco looks to the ceiling to buy a little time; Macdolas’s last enthusiastic exclamation has him blushing. From the periphery of his vision, he sees Hermione reddening as she stares equally fixedly at the floorboards, rubbing a bunny slipper along her calf.

He seizes upon a distraction.

“Granger – you dropped something. On the sofa,” Draco steps over, picking it up and handing it to her.

“Oh, yes. Um… this is for you, actually,” Hermione mumbles, shoving the soft parcel back into his hands. She shrugs, avoiding his curious regard.

“Just something I picked up when I was out shopping yesterday. Give it back if you don’t want it,” she makes a sudden jerky grab at the gift, which Draco easily blocks.

“Hold your Horned Serpents, witch! I haven’t even opened it yet!” Draco retreats a few feet away, hastily ripping apart the decorative wrapping paper before Hermione can again attempt to confiscate his present.

Two matched Slytherin-green padded oven mitts; Draco turns them over, revealing the meticulously embroidered silver initials on each. _D.L.M_. Hermione has given him monogrammed oven mitts. His fingers dig into the cotton fabric as he stares mutely at the unexpected gift.

“This is why you were perusing that book, yesterday,” Draco coughs out the observation around the lump in his throat.

“Yeah… I had some time on my hands, it was fun… I used to do craft work with my mum. Anyway,” Hermione trails off, clasping her hands in front of her and shifting uncomfortably. “Maybe Macdolas can still use them, if you don’t like –“

Draco cuts off her demurring words with a fierce, passionate kiss; he lets his hot mouth express the words he daren’t speak, as he cups Hermione’s sweet, beautiful face in both hands. The mitts fall at their feet as he presses every drop of his tumultuous emotions into the embrace.

He only disengages from her willing lips at the sound of a tiny clap; Macdolas is standing in the doorway, watching their impulsive smooch with delighted, limpid eyes.

“Macdolas begs his apologies but he must be asking how Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger wishes her eggs cooked?” the house elf chirps.

Hermione answers shakily, “However you like, Macdolas. And please, just call me ‘Hermione’.”

“Good luck with that,” Draco mutters, resting his forehead against hers as Macdolas predictably squawks in spirited protest.

Draco weaves this fingers through Hermione’s, leading her out of the room as Macdolas scampers ahead of them.

“Let’s sit down to breakfast before he spontaneously combusts in outrage,” Draco comments. “I need to tell you what my father – what Lucius revealed on Friday evening, by the way.”

Hermione nods silently, squeezing his hand a bit tighter.

“Hey, Granger?” Draco brings her capable, delicate hand to his mouth, staring intently into her iridescent eyes.

“Thank you,” he unfurls her little palm to press a tender kiss to the centre.

 _You’re the true gift_ … he thinks, but cannot say.


	20. Alumni

_Monday 03 March 2003: AM_

“Mrs Sandore – I don’t understand why you’re asking me to sit in on this meeting… Importation/exportation law is not one of my specialties, and I don’t have much practical knowledge of wine beyond ‘red’ or ‘white’,” Hermione protests, bewildered by her supervisor’s last minute directive.

“Oh, that’s perfectly fine, Ms Granger – it’s the legal ramifications of the importation of a new product line that they’re interested in. Specifically, the addition of a Portuguese magical herb to boost the anti-inflammatory and antioxidant benefits of the resveratrol; apparently the MUKVA – that’s the Magical United Kingdom Vineyards Association, dear – is demanding more research into the possible side-effects of excessive euphoria and increased allergen sensitivities.”

Marilda ignores Hermione’s expression of irked bafflement as she pushes a compact dossier across her desk. “The meeting’s not until 10.15AM; you’ve over an hour to familiarize yourself with the particulars, Ms Granger. I realize this isn’t your usual area of expertise, but I can tell you – in the strictest confidence, of course – that you’re the brightest young lawyer in the Department, and I’ve every confidence you will handle this conference with your usual professionalism and aplomb.”

Mrs Sandore’s tone brooks no argument; Hermione reluctantly slides the heavy folder into her lap and glumly sinks back into her seat.

Throwing a surreptitious glance at the closed door of her office, Marilda leans forward, lowering her voice as she informs Hermione, “Besides – young Mr Zabini personally requested your assistance in the matter, and the Director agreed that you could be excused from your regular duties for the morning.”

Eyes sparkling with co-conspiratorial delight, Marilda whispers, “I think you’ve made quite the impression there, Ms Granger!”.

Hermione literally bites her tongue to contain her immediate, angry reaction.

“Blaise Zabini _specifically_ asked for my involvement?”.

Marilda nods excitedly.

Cogitating furiously, Hermione chooses her subsequent words with care.

“Mrs Sandore, I am concerned that Mr Zabini’s request stems more from a… personal motive than any true regard for my professional capabilities. Excuse my candour, but this feels uncomfortably close to ‘pimping me out’, so to speak.” Hermione’s voice is quiet but implacable.

“Oh! Oh, my dear Ms Granger, never think it!” Marilda actually slaps her hands to her cheeks in horror. “Had I sensed any impropriety in the request, I should never have suggested it to you!” she hastens to reassure her subordinate.

Hermione relents on her stern stance as she witnesses Marilda’s sincerity and distress at the thought that she may have placed Hermione in a compromising position.

“I suppose I can always simply walk out, if Zabini says or does anything inappropriate,” she concedes.

Mrs Sandore taps a quill to her lips. “What if I sit in on the meeting for the first quarter hour? Or until we’re both satisfied the collaboration is genuine in nature and scope?” she worriedly proposes. “I would cancel your attendance altogether… but the Director was especially resolute as to your involvement…” the older woman agitatedly shreds the feathered end of the quill with her fingers; Hermione has to look away from the preoccupied vandalism.

“Very well, Mrs Sandore – let’s see how it goes and react accordingly,” Hermione hears herself agreeing. _You soft-hearted fool_. But seeing Marilda upset isn’t something she enjoys. Plus: she confesses that she’d rather enjoy imparting a scathing, public dressing-down if Zabini does try any funny business.

Hermione stands to leave, lugging the heavy file beneath her right arm. “Please come collect me when it’s time to leave for the meeting, Mrs Sandore – I’d best start on the reading,” she gives her supervisor a tight-lipped, resigned smile.

“Thank you, Ms Granger – and please, do understand that preserving my duty of care to you is my highest priority,” Marilda stresses. “I shall hex Mr Zabini myself if he dares nudge a toe out of line.” Her kind brown eyes take on a ferociously protective gleam that reminds (a slightly alarmed) Hermione of Molly Weasley shielding her cubs.

Nodding, Hermione exits the office, indulging in a grumpy, self-pitying scowl as she trudges back to her cubicle. _There isn’t enough caffeine in the world to improve_ this _Monday._

* * *

Hermione's fears that Zabini had plotted to include her in the meeting in an obnoxious attempt to chat her up have been assuaged by his perfectly correct behaviour ever since she and Marilda had entered the discreet, well-appointed conference room on the fifth floor of the Ministry.

The International Magical Trading Standards Body clearly has access to a much larger budget than the Wizengamot Administration Services, Hermione thinks with a small sniff. The coffee, tea, and glazed pastries on the table are fresh and tasty; a marked difference from her department’s usual fare of stale Hobnobs and soggy pink wafers.

She inspects the other attendees with circumspect sidelong glances as Zabini smoothly blathers on about cooperation and expedition of red tape. Marilda is seated on her left at the long oval table (her allotted fifteen-minute monitoring attendance has a few more minutes yet to run). Zabini stands to her right; directly across from her is none other than Theodore Nott, while the would-be exporter of fine Portuguese wines sits attentively beside him. Marcus Flint.

Hermione warily eyes the ex-Slytherin Quidditch captain, wondering where he’s been living and working for the past five or six years. Her busy mind ticks over as she tries to place the last time she saw him; she’s reasonably confident that she’s neither seen nor heard about the brawny Pureblood since he’d finally graduated from Hogwarts in 1994. There wasn’t any mention of him being involved in the Second Wizarding War, as far as she’s aware.

 _He’s had his crooked teeth expertly realigned at some point; hopefully, his conniving attitude has improved, too._ Hermione remembers Harry bitterly denouncing the hulking Chaser for habitual foul play and dirty tricks. Harry had gone so far as to insinuate that Flint must have some troll blood running through his dishonest veins. Her pursed lips twitch at the memory.

Flint must have sensed her overlong regard of his features; he looks across the table, showing his straightened and homogenised choppers in a bland, friendly smile. Hermione ignores it, flickering her eyes back to her opened dossier; she is perturbed at having been caught staring.

Marcus’s improved appearance isn’t limited to his orthodontic work; he has lost most of his mien of brutishness and grown into his heavy features since Hermione last saw him. And he’s discarded his severe, unbecoming Caesar hairstyle for a short-back-and-sides brunet ‘do. She supposes that he’s not an unattractive man – if you like tall, dark, and rough-around-the-edges.

 _Which I do not._ The thought flashes into her brain along with the vivid memory of shagging Draco senseless on her lounge on Saturday night. _No! Focus! No erotic flashbacks at work!_

Risking another upward glance, she is startled to find Theo Nott’s keen kiwi-green orbs locked on her face; he jerks his gaze away, rosiness suffusing his translucid skin above the neck of his olive Bengal-striped shirt and single-breasted dark fawn suit. After a few moments, he looks back at her, his mouth curving in a hesitant, congenial smile that Hermione has no compunction returning. Nott’s lean, almost-gangly body seems particularly refined compared to Flint’s sturdiness; and his dreamily intelligent eyes reflect a self-possession that sits well upon his ascetic features.

She’d not had much discourse with Theo during their schooling, but he’d never overtly bullied her. Nor had he shown any interest participating in the historic Slytherin/Gryffindor enmity, preferring to keep to himself or study quietly in the library. Occasionally, they’d nodded cordially at one another whilst burning the midnight oil. Hermione had sometimes wondered at the perpetual shadows behind his emerald eyes – was it melancholia? Pain? As with Flint, she has little concept of how the man has been existing for the past half-decade.

Marilda interrupts her busy thoughts, standing up to give Hermione’s right shoulder a small squeeze. The younger woman nods, indicating that she is confident to continue the meeting alone. Marilda smiles, turning to Blaise.

“Thank you for your comprehensive synopsis of the proposed trade agreement, Mr Zabini – I have every confidence that Ms Granger is ably quipped to answer any legal considerations from this point. Do excuse me, gentlemen,” and Mrs Sandore nods at each man before walking from the conference room. She makes a point of securing the door open with the small rear latch before she departs.

The three men turn to Hermione, obviously awaiting her input. _Right. Here I go_. Hermione shuffles her loose leaf parchment notes in her hands and clears her throat.

“As I see it, the major legal sticking point is ensuring that MUKVA is satisfied that the stringent testing procedures on the new varietal have inarguably met their current standards – and in order for that to occur, you are going to have to order another round of stricter tests from a reputable French oenologist. If you proceed without running those tests, you run the probable risk of future lawsuits and a revocation of your international export licence, should the new vintage display detrimental side effects.’

‘My brief, _under-prepared_ research (she glares at Blaise) indicates that the wine industry is unforgiving of experimental products that later prove inferior or defamatory to their esteemed reputation.”

Flint jerks forward in his chair, expostulating, “But we’ve already spent a bloody fortune on tests! Our capital is stretched thin as it is!”. He modulates his aggrieved tone as Blaise cocks one glossy eyebrow.

“I mean – the wine has already passed the Portuguese and Spanish testing standards with flying colours… sending it to France seems like a redundant expense,” Marcus backtracks.

“Isn’t that why I asked Theo to join us?” Blaise reminds the burly man. “He is already an active investor in a number of international wineries, and is well-placed to either fund the testing or advise whether you’re trying to break into the market prematurely.”

 _Aha. So Theo has his slender fingers in more than a few pies_ , Hermione surmises.

Theo speaks for the first time since they’d exchanged greetings.

“Ms Granger is absolutely correct – there is no point in moving forward with the export expansion until the French have signed off on their approval,” he nods acknowledgement to Hermione, who blinks at the unexpected praise.

“From an investor’s viewpoint, I’m interested in finding out more about the herbal additive and how you decided to experiment with its inclusion in the vintification.” Nott flips through his notes.

“I see that you are pushing the Moscatel as your flagship wine; what’s the reasoning behind that choice?” he presses. All traces of the shy diffidence he’d earlier displayed have vanished; in their place sits a cool, canny, uber-professional young entrepreneur.

Marcus flicks his left wrist in a dismissive motion. “I leave that technical stuff to the eggheads,” he drawls. “All I need to know is that the stuff tastes good and sells well – and it’s been flying off the shelves in Iberia.” He smirks as he brags, “It’s a right little Galleon-spinner, make no mistake.”

 _‘Eggheads’ – charming. This explains how you failed your NEWTS on the first go-round_ , Hermione ponders disapprovingly.

Nott launches into a series of relentlessly technical questions (minimum and maximum alcoholic strengths, acidity, sweetening and enrichment additives, residual sugar content, clarifying agents, protein stability...) that Flint is incapable of answering. His increasing annoyance at Theo’s skilled exposure of his ignorance is evident in the way Marcus scratches at his too-tight collar and yanks at his slightly protuberant ears.

Hermione hides her amused smile behind her sheaf of parchment, increasingly certain that Nott is deliberately baiting Flint with every composed query he is pitching. Her suspicions are confirmed as Theo cards his elegantly lean pale hand through his fringe of hickory-brown curls, dropping a quiet, co-conspiratorial wink in Hermione’s direction as Marcus shifts restlessly in his seat. The gesture makes her blink and tuck in her mouth lest an inappropriate giggle leak out.

Zabini finally intervenes, pushing back his seat and rising as he interrupts Theo’s vinaceous inquisition.

“Thank you, Theo, for that fascinating insight into everything I never wanted to know about winemaking,” he quips. “Marcus – Ms Granger and Theo have raised some pertinent issues that must be addressed. We’ll allot you a week’s grace before we revisit the trade agreement proposition; I’ll let you know the time and date of that consultation.”

Blaise doesn’t wait for Flint’s resentful nod of acceptance before he turns his charismatic attention to Hermione.

“Ms Granger, please accept our sincerest thanks for your shrewd participation and sagacity; may we include you in our next meeting, please?” Blaise stops short of fluttering his enviably long, dark lashes in supplication. Hermione is unmoved.

“I’m confident you can call upon many other Ministry employees with a greater range of expertise and experience in this particular arena, Mr Zabini,” she parries with a tight smile, gathering her documents and standing up herself.

“Good day, gentlemen; it’s been an interesting experience,” she nods. Marcus curtly dips his head, whilst Theo’s slow-forming, winsome smile makes Hermione briefly wonder why she hadn’t paid him more attention at Hogwarts. His usual self-effacing, quiet comportment is easily obliterated when he elects to shine that appealingly seraphic killer smile at an unsuspecting witch.

“Until next week, Ms Granger!” Blaise gaily calls after her departing form, undaunted by her refusal.

 _Does the blasted man’s audacious self-confidence ever suffer the slightest blow?_ Hermione clicks her tongue as she hurries back to her pinched little workspace; she is due to meet Harry for an early lunch in the cafeteria at half past eleven, and she wants to scribble down and organize her notes on the odd meeting before then.

* * *

“Hermione, over here!” Harry waves from a square table tucked in the darkest, chilliest corner of the Ministry’s eatery; they usually sit there to avoid prying, censorious eyes. Hermione smiles and hurries to meet her friend, hugging him tightly before they take a seat on the unforgiving metal chairs. The luncheon crowd has not yet swarmed the cafeteria, hence the conversational din is muted in their comparatively secluded area.

Harry gestures at the two trays of food before them. “Shepherd’s pie and veggies – best of an ordinary bunch, I’m afraid.” He spikes his fork dubiously at an anaemic pea as it rolls feebly across his plate.

“Harry – it’s fine. Thank you for getting our meals,” Hermione reassures him. He looks weary, mauve shadows bagging beneath his bespectacled eyes. She lays a concerned hand upon his robed arm.

“Are you alright? Has work been terribly taxing?” Worry permeates her soft voice as Harry removes his round glasses to knuckle at his tired eyes.

“I’m OK… don’t worry, love. I’m not sleeping well at the moment. ‘Operation Acromantula’ is our top priority and we seem to be getting somewhere at last.’

“That’s the codename for the roofie potioneer investigation,” he adds, correctly interpreting Hermione’s nonplussed expression.

“Oh, right. Speaking of which, Dra- Malfoy told me that his father provided some pertinent intelligence?” Hermione hopes Harry doesn’t notice her slip-up; but Harry’s twisted grin suggests otherwise.

“Did he now?” Harry’s eyes spark with playful mockery. “Was it part of his ongoing ‘protection and support package’, Hermione?”.

He laughs aloud at her disconcerted aspect as Hermione pretends to fiddle with the side comb in her hair to cover her hot cheeks.

“I thought you might like to know, that’s all,” she eventually states, keeping her face averted.

Harry’s chuckles cease at her miffed, injured tone; he gently pulls her shielding hand from her flushed cheek.

“I’m sorry, Hermione – I’m only teasing. Malfoy owled me a brief report of Lucius’s information late on Friday night, and he’s meeting with me to discuss it in full – “ Harry checks the large utilitarian clock mounted above the cafeteria entrance – “in twenty minutes. I’ll have to make our lunch short and sweet, I’m afraid.”

“You are?” Hermione squeaks, flummoxed by Harry’s casual mention of collaboration – he’d been blatantly suspicious of Draco’s motives and involvement at their Friday meeting.

 _What the hell did the two of them discuss when I left the interrogation room?_ She forks some savoury mince into her agape mouth in an effort to ground herself.

“Mmm. Want to sit in? I’m sure Draco will enjoy seeing you,” Harry is snickering mischievously again.

Hermione’s flatware clanks to her plate. “What are you getting at, Harry? Go on – don’t beat around the Flutterby bush!” she hisses.

Harry reaches over to clasp her angry little hand in his warm one. “Hermione – I know.” His leprechaun green eyes connect searchingly with her golden brown peepers as she turns crimson in a boiling wave of discomfiture.

“What – what do you mean?” She makes one last stab at pretending she doesn’t understand exactly what Harry is intimating. Harry dramatically rolls both his eyes and head at the drab ceiling.

“Honestly, watching the two of you hopelessly stumbling about - _steeped_ in denial - is both incredibly amusing and deeply frustrating,” Harry groans. He turns to face her again.

“Love, I know that you’re a couple. You and Draco Malfoy,” Harry clarifies. He holds up an admonishing index finger at her automatic sputter.

“No, Hermione – please, spare me the indignant denial and injured outrage. I have two functioning eyes and ears; you may as well take out an advertisement in The Daily Prophet.” Harry sneaks in a few more generous bites of his pie as Hermione’s mouth works to form a coherent sentence.

Harry blithely continues, ”I’ve no desire to hear the particulars – witnessing you and Ron pashing and fumbling was bad enough! – but I will ask you this: are you happy? And safe?”.

 _Godric’s goatee, not the ‘safe sex’ talk… again!_ Hermione closes her eyes, wishing she had earlids as well as eyelids. _Ground, swallow me._

Harry is as bloody obstinate as ever. “Well? I promise I won’t pry, but I must be satisfied that you’ve not been coerced or overwhelmed in any way,” his voice is sombre as he squeezes her shaky palm for emphasis.

Hermione immediately lashes her head from side-to-side to negate the abhorrent idea.

“Harry… _I_ went to Malfoy. I don’t mean – that first night. But yeah, I guess that was my choice, too.” She gulps, braving another glance at her concerned friend. “I most certainly wasn’t coerced, and I’m not overwhelmed – and – and I’m being safe – that is, we’re being safe. And I know you don’t want to know the nitty gritty details – rest assured I don’t want to tell you! But we’re not a couple, not like that –“

He holds up a hand, grimacing. “OK, that’ll do. Really. Please, _stop_. Hermione, if he hurts you –“

“Harry, please don’t threaten Dra – Draco. He’s… my friend, and he isn’t who you think he is. I don’t know that he ever was,” Hermione finishes quietly.

Harry sighs but doesn’t respond. A melancholy silence settles over their small table and abandoned meals.

Another diner screaks a chair across the tiled floor, and the mood is broken.

Hermione stands as Harry scans the clock again and gathers his food tray. He puts it back down suddenly as another idea strikes him.

“Love – did you deliberately forget Ron’s birthday was Saturday? He was pretty cut up about it when I dropped into the Burrow that morning,” Harry uneasily musses his hand through his hair.

Hermione’s mortified face provides Harry with the answer. “I completely forgot – I’m an awful friend! I’ve never not sent him a card or gift before! We had an awful quarrel at my desk on Friday morning…” she frets, fingernails unconsciously graunching her ‘Mudblood’ scar through her long-sleeved blue and white paisley blouse.

“I know – Ron told me,” Harry firmly steers Hermione’s scrabbling fingers away from her arm. “Look, try not to worry over it, Hermione. It might be for the best that you and Ron allow each other some space and time, anyway.”

“I suppose…” Hermione is unconvinced, gnawing remorsefully at her lower lip.

Harry impulsively gathers her into a consoling hug. They stand thus for a few moments before a boisterous masculine voice booms beside the table.

“I thought that was you two! Two thirds of the Golden Trio – fancy meeting you here, huh?”.

Disengaging from Harry’s strong arms, Hermione identifies the speaker with faint acknowledgment.

“Hello, Cormac.” _Gracious, is the Ministry hosting a Hogwarts reunion that we weren’t invited to?_ Hermione chews at her abused lip again.

Harry merely jerks his head, eyeballing their fellow Gryffindor schoolmate with what Hermione privately labels his ‘Auror Animus’: inflexible jaw, stern mouth and forbidding frown.

Cormac is undeterred by the lukewarm reception. His wide smile amplifies as his seaweed green eyes drift over Hermione from head to toe; she instinctually folds her arms across her chest as defence against his unsurprising ogle. Harry pushes forward, blocking Cormac’s prurient leer.

“What are you doing here, McLaggen?” Harry’s blunt belligerence doesn’t dent Cormac’s brash cocksureness one iota.

“Came by to pick up Uncle Tiberius’s personal effects – he finally fell off his perch last month – accidentally drowned in the bath, poor old sod,” Cormac flippantly discloses as he points to the old-fashioned archive box lodged beneath his left armpit. “’Course, I could’ve left it for a minion to send on, but I didn’t want to take the chance old Tibby might’ve left some treasures hidden in his office,” he crassly expounds.

“My condolences for your… _profound_ loss,” Hermione offers, already aware that McLaggen wouldn’t hear the irony in her remark if it smacked him on the arse.

Cormac’s smirk doesn’t fade. “Oh, it’s not all gloom and doom, Hermione – seeing as how I’m his sole heir. Tibby was a confirmed bachelor, y’know.” He winks unpleasantly.

Hermione can’t help voicing her reprimand. “Cormac – that’s quite a stigmatizing term – and rather unfair to your uncle –“

“Don’t let it bother your pretty little head, Hermione – ole Tibby hated women, he wouldn’t care what you had to say about it,” the goldenrod-blond wizard steamrolls her objection.

“Anyway – didn’t find a single Knut up in Tib’s office. Gotta wonder if someone didn’t beat me to it,” Cormac reflects with a scowl. His expression clears as he angles his head around Harry to address Hermione again.

“So, how about it, Hermione? You, me, tonight… I’ll treat you to a classy nosh and some bubbles, take some time to enjoy each other’s company a bit more intimately? Pick you up at seven, there’s a good girl.” Cormac’s confident grin is all perfect ivories and pneumatic lips.

Repressing a shudder, Hermione begins to frame a categorical refusal; her introductory ‘No’ has barely left her lips before McLaggen overrides her objection.

“I’ve got plenty of dosh, sweetheart – Uncle Tibby was a canny old miser, I’ll say that for him.” Cormac bobbles his eyebrows, eyes sparking with vulgar anticipation. “We’ve never explored our chemistry properly… and you’ve grown into a right little looker, babe.”

 _Ugh. I’ll need a Silkwood shower after this._ Hermione glares at the brazen young blockhead. He may be the physical epitome of standardized male beauty (butterscotch-blond curls, Grecian nose, full lips and strong as a Hungarian Horntail), but his crass personality and offensive manner leave him looking as ugly as sin.

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with you, Cormac McLaggen. We never had any chemistry, we’re not friends, and I’ve absolutely no desire to have you paw obscenely at me ever again. I made a colossal mistake inviting you to that Slug Club night; rest assured, it’s not an error I’ll ever repeat. You should go.”

 _I’ve had it with ‘playing nice’_ , Hermione thinks. _Besides, this buffoon won’t take no for an answer otherwise._

Cormac’s easy smirk quickly morphs into a pugnacious glower. He opens his sneering mouth to retort – but two competing, forceful male voices drown him out.

“Beat it, McLaggen – “

“You heard Ms Granger – GO –“

 _What the devil? That sounds like Draco!_ Hermione leans past Harry, clutching at her friend’s stalwart arm for support when her hunch is proven true.

Draco Malfoy is flanking Harry – nay, practically standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry! – glooming at Cormac with his trademark frosty menace. His fair colouring and indubitably ferocious presence lend him the aura of an avenging mythological Norse deity; Hermione’s loins unabashedly quicken at the sight of the man. And at the titillating mental image, if she’s honest.

Predictably, Cormac does not react well to the doubled menace.

“What’re _you_ doing here, you slimy wanker? Shouldn’t you be keeping your yellow-bellied Death Eater daddy company in exile?” Cormac’s overloud, spiteful response reverberates across the busy cafeteria. Necks crick as other diners avidly sense an impending donnybrook.

Draco peels his lips back from his teeth in unamused scorn; Hermione is surprised when he stays silent at Cormac’s provocation.

“Fuck off, Cormac. Before I have you tossed out of here like yesterday’s rubbish,” Harry pitches his voice low but it carries to the nearby tables, judging by the shocked gasps of the crowd.

All four participants in their rapidly-escalating drama now have wands in hand; Hermione doesn’t take her eyes off McLaggen as he makes a few convulsive twitches. His face is a study in malignant frustration.

To her great relief (or disappointment, she’s unsure which right now), Cormac relaxes his hostile stance and slips his wand back in the pocket of his navy robes.

McLaggen laughs insincerely as he cordially bids the triad, “I’ll be seeing you around, fellas! Lovely to catch-up – wouldn’t have missed this for quids!”. He unhurriedly turns for the door, pausing only once to blow a mocking kiss at Hermione. She hears Draco growl like a wrathful Wampus cat.

Harry grabs Hermione’s hand. “Are you OK, love?”.

She pins a flimsy smile on her dial. “Yeah – I’m fine. He’s all wind and no wand,” Hermione jokes feebly. Neither of her tense guardians so much as quirk a lip. She tries again. “Really, I’m good. But do you think we could beat a hasty retreat, before the audience gets any thicker?”.

They both nod; Harry moves to her right side, keeping a hold of her hand, while Draco walks to her left, his palm warm against the small of her back. His light touch immediately calms her crashing adrenaline levels.

As they pace from the eatery and toward the elevators, Hermione asks Draco, “Why were you in the cafeteria, Malfoy?”.

“Potter’s late,” Draco succinctly replies. “Heard he was at lunch.” His impassive response is at odds with the residual heat in his eyes as they scan her face and body; a muscle jumps in his mandible at her faint trembles.

They step into a half-occupied elevator; Harry checks, “Are you joining us, Hermione?” as his finger hovers over the directional buttons.

“Yes, I am,” Hermione responds firmly, as she crowds in beside Draco at the rear of the lift. Their hands graze, pinkie fingers twining almost imperceptibly. Harry prods the marker for Level Two and pushes his way back to their position. His sharp eyes don’t miss their tiny connection; his shoulders shake slightly with suppressed mirth as he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘But you’re not a couple… not like that’.

“Shut up, Harry,” Hermione hisses… which only serves to make her friend vibrate more.

She stares straight ahead, ignoring the unfunny wretch.

And when Draco gently slides his entire hand around her own, Hermione doesn’t hesitate to hold it tight.


	21. Inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: this chapter contains dark themes of familial violence and sadistic/sexual perversions.  
> Not explicitly detailed, but please heed the warnings to avoid being triggered.**

__

_Monday 03 March 2003: Noon_

Potter has commandeered Interrogation Room Two again, performing an identical ritual of muting and obscuring the enspelled one-way mirror before he plonks himself behind the steel table. After ensuring Hermione is safely seated, Draco resigns himself to another uncomfortable session of a gradually-numbing bum as he sits ramrod straight on the same frugal chair as last Friday. Without conscious thought, Draco resumes holding Hermione’s slightly chilled small hand, bringing it to rest on his knee as he slides his hard Ministry-approved chair closer to bridge the gap.

 _She’s obviously still distressed by that goatish bozo McClaggen._ Draco forces himself to remain calm, despite his overpowering desire to seek out the lecherous fool and dole out some satisfyingly physical discipline. As in, reducing Cormac’s nasal bones to something closely resembling smashed pumpkin pulp.

Hermione gives his unconsciously-tightening hand a tiny tug; Draco shoots her an apologetic look for his thoughtlessly tense squeeze. She smiles reassuringly before returning her attention to The Boy Who Lived.

The incredibly pesky expression of indulgent – ‘ _smuggery’_ – hasn’t left Potter’s affable face since he joined them in the elevator. Draco resolves to ignore it and instead focus on passing on his father’s Death Eater intel as quickly and summarily as possible. Harry finishes sorting through the disorganized heap of parchment, ink and quills in front of him, his countenance finally settling into a more professional aspect as he nods at Draco.

“We’re listening, Malfoy.”

As Draco begins his edited tale of interrogating Lucius for any and all scraps of information after Friday’s dinner, his mind inescapably provides him with the rest of the impressions and atmosphere attached to the memory…

* * *

“Have a seat, Lucius.” Draco waits for the hollow-cheeked man to lower into his favoured sanguineous studded-leather Westbury armchair. He is jarred by how shrunken his sire appears in it now; as a child, he’d thought his father a king perched regally in his throne, such was the impression of haughty privilege that both Lucius and the furniture had projected.

He strives to keep his unwelcome pity at bay; even in this depleted state, Lucius Malfoy has mobilized enough contumelious wiliness to bear watching carefully. Despite his touted regret over his past crimes and woefully poor decisions, Lucius has never before offered any opportunity for discourse on the subject of Voldemort, or the subsequent forced adaptation of the grand estate of Malfoy Manor into the tawdry quarters for all manner of Death Eater scum.

 _Well, it’s not as if we were ever going to sit down to hot tea and fresh scones to have a nice little chat about the best way to scrub gobbets of blood from the dungeons after a productive day of torture and murder_. Draco scoffs at his errant musings.

He chooses to remain standing; he suspects that Lucius would have preferred not to cede the looming advantage, had his physical stamina been sufficient. Blaise and Theo sit opposite the scowling Lord Malfoy, waiting for Draco to begin.

“Lucius – tell us everything you know of Death Eaters and their sick pastimes, fantasies and schemes,” Draco sternly exhorts. “Spare no detail, no matter how depraved. We need this information, and quickly.”

Lucius bristles at his son’s contemptuous decree. “I demand to know why –“

“You will demand _nothing_ ,” Draco sharply interrupts. “Your sole choice is divulging the information to us here and now, or I’ll bring Aurors here on the morrow. Cease stalling; and remember that I will know if you lie,” he reminds Lucius of his Legilimency.

Lucius resorts to sarcasm, glaring up into the granite-grey eyes so alike to his own. “I require more specificity, Draco; the degenerate fantasies of the Dark Lord’s followers were nigh innumerable,” he sneers.

“Begin with my father,” Theo quietly prompts. His words are imbued with an undercurrent of steel that causes Draco and Blaise’s head to swivel to him in surprise.

“And what would you truly know of the illustrious Senior Nott, Theodore?” Lucius’s voice drips venom; his jealous contempt of the younger man clearly hasn’t dwindled. “He told me more than once that you represented his greatest failure.” Lucius slips the metaphorical stiletto between Theo’s ribs with cold precision.

Theo’s wintry response to the bitter jibe rattles Draco to his bones.

“Do you believe that is a revelation to me, Lord Malfoy?” Theo’s quixotic eyes are harder and blacker than Draco has ever seen them.

“I watched dear old daddy hurl my mother down a flight of stairs when I was three years old,” Theo’s voice is that of an automaton; he could be reciting dry historical facts from ‘Hogwarts: A History’ – such is his apparent detachment from the subject matter. He continues relentlessly, ignoring Blaise and Draco’s gasps of shocked horror. Even Lucius sharply inhales at the disclosure.

“Mother had been pleading for him to cease beating me – I’d gotten into his study, you see; he usually kept it tightly locked and warded, but he must’ve been too drunk to bother that night. He roused from his inebriated stupor on the couch and caught me playing with a quill that had fallen to the floor. Mother ran in when he began whipping me with his belt – my shrieks awoke her. She told me to run and hide, but I only made it as far as the landing when her screams began.”

Theo is gazing sightlessly at the antique Persian Tabriz rug at his feet. He whispers the rest.

“He dragged my mother from the study by her hair; her face was already swelling from his brutality. She opened her eyes just before he threw her to her death… she saw me cowering against the banister… her last words were ‘ _Lauf, Liebling!_ ’.”

“Her name was Sabine. I did not remember that until I went to live with my grandmother. Father removed all traces of her from our lives as easily as he’d covered up her murder.” Theo comes back to himself with a slight lurch, his eyes refocusing as the other occupants of the luxurious masculine retreat remain frozen in place.

“Therefore – hearing that my father bruited about his pervasive condemnation of me as a son and human being does not surprise or bother me in the slightest, Lord Malfoy. I’d be more insulted had he sung my praises,” Theo peels back his poet’s lips in a facsimile of a smile.

Draco is the first to react. “Theo… I’m sorry.” As inane as it is – he cannot think of anything better to say.

Shrugging dismissively, Theo states, “It was a long time ago. I mentioned it because it speaks to my father’s historic penchant for violence, misogyny and murder. And I do know that he was an enthusiastic member of a perverted sub-group amongst Voldemort’s upper echelon.”

“Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Walden Macnair, Corben Yaxley, Fenrir Greyback – and Nott Senior.” Lucius offers the names with no display of his earlier antagonism. Both of his atrophied hands rigidly clutch his serpent-headed cane.

“’The Sadistic Six’. A subset specializing in abduction, torture, rape, sadism, mutilation, murder, and cannibalism. Or a combination of those elements. And before you ask, Draco – I did not become aware of the true nature of their debased and degenerate proclivities until after the Dark Lord’s return and his forcible seizure of our ancestral home for use as his war base,” Lucius stiffly informs him. “I heard rumours that they were experimenting with illegal lust potions and yes, there were some fanatical murmurings of force-breeding witches to bear the next generation of Death Eaters. I tried to avoid becoming involved in such discussions at the time.”

 _Too preoccupied trying to keep a low profile after unenviably winning the position of Voldemort’s Number One Whipping Boy_. The criticism snakes into Draco’s mind.

“What about Voldemort himself?” Theo presses. “Was he involved in those plans?”

Lucius frowns. “He encouraged any scheme designed to debase and denigrate Mud- Muggleborns and Muggles – and he definitely enjoyed sadistic physical and psychological torture – but to the best of my knowledge, he didn’t personally practise the Sadistic Six’s ‘hobbies’. Well, apart from murder, of course.”

“Disappointing, Lucius – I was hoping you’d finally confirm that Voldemort _did_ return dick-less, as well as nose-less,” Blaise muses in apparent seriousness.

 _Bloody Zabini – zero filter, zero shame_. Draco shakes his head in exasperation. At least the irreverently uncouth flippancy has made Theo smirk.

“You will address me as _Lord Malfoy_ , young Zabini – and it’s painful to note that your juvenile wit has failed to mature over the years,” Lucius scorns, as Blaise chuckles at his own joke.

Theo sets the discussion back on track. “Lestrange and Greyback were killed at the Battle of Hogwarts; Dolohov and Yaxley are serving life in Azkaban; is Macnair still missing?”.

“What of your father?” Blaise interjects.

“He’s dead. Trust me.” The grim finality in Theo’s assertion is a deep, dark well that the other men have no desire to climb down.

“Macnair is indeed missing, presumed deceased,” Blaise confirms. “That’s the Ministry’s party line, for what it’s worth.”

Draco chips in. “Lucius – was there any talk of the Sadistic Six building a legacy? Passing their systemized deviance down to the next generation?”.

Lucius rubs his forefinger over the jewelled cane’s snake eyes, brows lowering in thought.

“I once saw them poring over a huge, leather-bound tome; initially I believed it to be yet another text on the Dark Arts,” he admits. “But Macnair gloatingly called it ‘The Manifesto’… from the brief glimpse I obtained, it was stuffed with loose-leafed parchment, as well as print. I’ve no idea what became of it.”

He begins to rise to his feet, staying Draco’s instinctive reaching arm of support with an imperious hand; ire has lent him the strength to rise with reasonable steadiness.

“I am not an invalid, Draco – and I’ve told you everything I know on this matter. Inspect my mind with your invasive Legilimency, if you don’t believe me; but I am done for the evening.” Lucius glares around the room.

Draco doesn’t need to push any telepathic tendrils into his father’s brain to know he is being honest. The man still looks defiant, but his utterances following Theo’s exposé have borne a ring of truth.

“Fine. Be aware that Harry Potter may come here for further questioning of his own. And I expect you to cooperate fully with his investigation. No exceptions,” Draco warns.

Lucius looks as though he’s just stood downwind of a flatulent Erumpent, but he refrains from expressing his distaste at the possibility. He nods once in sour resignation and makes for the door with a measured gait.

Hand on the handle, Lucius turns. “Draco – you would tell me if your mother were in danger, would you not?”. His hoary eyes peer anxiously at his son’s.

“Of course, Father.” The words leave Draco’s lips without conscious volition.

Neither acknowledge the slip; but Lucius’s tension fractionally abates. “Goodnight, Draco. Young Zabini.” He pauses as his gaze slides to Theo.

“Master Nott – I did not know of your father’s atrocity. He told us your mother abandoned you both for a German wizard…”

 _This is probably the closest he’ll ever come to an apology_ , Draco cynically decides.

Theo jerks his chin, but stays silent. Lucius quietly exits the study.

The ex-Slytherin alumni look everywhere but at each other.

Blaise scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling in relief.

“ _Fuck_ _me_. That was rough as Murtlap guts!”. He bounces to his feet to begin rummaging through the sideboard. “Where’s the bloody firewhiskey hiding, Draco? I need a shot – or the whole ruddy bottle.”

“Mother told you – they don’t drink. Your impertinent ransacking is fruitless,” Draco acerbically replies. “There’s elderflower cordial in the left cupboard.”

“Elderflower… _cordial_ … ?” Blaise caterwauls in heartfelt horror. He claps a hand on Theo’s hunched shoulder.

“C’mon, mate – let’s find the nearest watering hole. And… I’m awfully sorry about your mum.” Zabini is unusually awkward as he squeezes Nott’s shoulder in affectionate sympathy.

“Theo – I’m so sorry; I wish I’d known… “ Draco’s eyes are smarting with choked emotion. Despite the lengthy gap in their friendship, Nott was – and is – his first, closest friend. The thought of Theo’s silenced trauma and suffering makes him sick to his stomach.

The young man mutely accepts their condolences, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. He keeps his tousled brunet head down bent as his throat convulses.

“Group hug!” Blaise suddenly announces; he drags Theodore and Draco into a tight clinch, chortling as they try to evade his strong arms.

“Just submit to the Zabini love bubble, you dour bastards,” he laughingly chides.

Draco expels a rusty laugh as he and Theo are squeezed even tighter by their rambunctious, tenacious friend.

“You’re an arsehole, Blaise – but you’re alright,” he grumbles. “Occasionally.”

* * *

Draco finishes his redacted retelling of the eye-opening session in Lucius’s study with relief; although he’d omitted any mention of Theo’s appalling familial history, the remaining subject matter is hardly palatable. He’d rubbed soothingly at Hermione’s taut back as he’d listed the Sadistic Six’s revolting interests; she’d visibly blanched at the confirmed plans for breeding enslavement.

Potter nods as Draco mentions instructing Lucius to be available for follow-up inquisition.

“Good. I’ll advise you when I intend to visit. Thank you, Malfoy.” Harry’s busy quill scratches across another sheet of parchment.

“I wouldn’t mind talking to Nott and Zabini as well, actually,” Harry remarks, thoughtfully steepling his fingers in front of his face.

“They’re both here now – well, they were as of eleven o’clock,” Hermione offers. “I attended a meeting with them regarding Marcus Flint’s ambitions to import Portuguese wines to Britain.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “Have you switched departments, love? I wouldn’t have thought that international trade law was one of your specialties.”

“It’s not – I was bulldozed into participating; apparently Zabini asked for me personally, and the Director backed his request,” Hermione says, a tad peevishly.

“He did what?” Draco barks. At Potter’s raised brows, he amends, “Did Blaise act professionally throughout?”.

Hermione nods. “Yes – I still find his motives for my inclusion a bit odd, but he was perfectly correct.”

Harry jumps up. “I might run up to Level Five and see if they’re still around – saves me time hunting them down later,” and he darts out the door, shoving it closed behind him.

Draco doesn’t waste the unexpected opportunity; he swings his legs to sit sideways on the chair, bringing both of Hermione’s hands into his in a light clasp.

“Hey – how are you coping, Granger? Really?”. He closely scrutinizes her ashy face.

“I’m OK, thank you,” she quietly answers. Her dignified bearing only cracks as Draco traces her quivery bottom lip with a gentle thumb; Hermione closes her eyes and turns her cheek into his hand.

As Draco releases her hands to feather his fingers against her temples, Hermione presses her palms to his hard-muscled chest. Her big, sad, cocoa eyes flitter closed as Draco slowly kisses her forehead, sprinkling tiny caresses across her angled dark eyebrows, moving south to the lateral edges of her eyelids.

Hermione’s sweetly sensitive mouth opens in a gladdened sigh as Draco’s attentions focus on her strawberry-pink lips. She rewards each delicate kiss with one of her own, until their lips meet and hold with developing hunger. The sound of their aroused breaths magnifies in the soundless chamber.

Draco is seriously considering hauling Hermione into his lap – _damn the_ _consequences_ – when the door bangs open with a rude thwack; he and Hermione spring apart like a couple of guilty, amorous teenagers.

“Nott – you owe me fifty Galleons, _suck-ah_!” Blaise Zabini crows gleefully. Draco briefly squinches his eyes closed, fighting the urge to dash from the room before his powerful, creeping blush somehow stains his platinum hair the colour of an adult flamingo.

Theo objects, “I never took that bet, Blaise – I simply pointed out that if Draco wanted you to know, he’d have told you himself.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Blaise perches on the near end of the solid table, rubbing his hands together showily. “Isn’t this interesting – eh, Harry? I take it you’ve been privy to this clandestine romance for a while – you don’t seem shocked by the development.” 

“Shocked – no. Wishing I’d knocked before we entered – yes,” Harry groans. He exaggeratedly shields his vision with one hand as he moves back to the seat behind the desk. Theo folds his arms as he leans gracefully against the left side wall, nodding at Draco before smiling at Hermione.

Draco’s eyes narrow at the gesture.

Hermione’s face rivals Draco’s for the right to be described as ‘beetroot-red’.

She jumps to her feet, hastily exclaiming, “I have to go – Marilda must be ready to send out a search party by now – right, goodbye – “ she cannons against Draco as she sidles away. He stands and holds the door as Hermione slips him a shy, upward glance.

“See you soon, Granger,” Draco’s discomfiture at having their private moment impertinently interrupted subsides as he gazes at Hermione’s candid, pulchritudinous face.

“Bye, Malfoy,” she whispers.

Closing the portal, Draco keeps his back to the others as Zabini starts to hoot.

“Draco – you are so bollocksed,” he titters, clapping as he rocks in jollity.

“That’s what I said!” Potter concurs. “Don’t bother trying to make either of them see sense, Blaise – they’ve bought a family pass to Cloud Cuckoo Land and are stubbornly determined to get value for money,” he laughs.

“I didn’t entirely understand what that metaphor meant, Harry – but contextually it sounded like taking the piss out of this deluded prat – well done,” Blaise praises.

The pair exchange fist-bumps as Draco seethes.

“Zabini – why did you push for Hermione to attend your dullard meeting this morning?” Draco demands, marching back to the table. “That’s not her area of legal expertise – explain yourself. You’d better not be harassing her!”

“Ah-ah-ah, mate – you’re barking up the wrong (jealous) tree there,” Blaise carries on taunting him. “We needed a legal eagle: Granger’s a crack lawyer; and I wanted to get to know her a little better – seeing as how we’ll be seeing a lot more of her,” he winks odiously.

Fuming, Draco opens his mouth to growl another remonstration, but Blaise hasn’t finished.

“If anything, you want to keep an eye on our slippery friend here,” he indicates to Theo with a lazy thumb. “Nott and Hermione shared a tender moment of mutual appreciation as she bid us adieu.”

“Thanks, _mate_ ,” Theo mutters. He quickly extends his open palms to a suspicious Draco.

“He’s baiting you, Draco – nothing happened. We smiled at each other, that’s all.”

Draco is unappeased. “What _kind_ of smile?”

Harry sighs mightily. “Gentlemen, as amusing as this is – and trust me, I’ll be laughing about it for the rest of the week – we need to concentrate on the real drama. Theo, Blaise: do you have any additional thoughts on unravelling the identities of these rapist bastards?”. Potter’s glass-filtered glare is fierce and uncompromising as he scans their faces.

“Well?”.

Theo rolls off the wall to stand beside one of the scattered notes on the table. “Where’s your Ministry potions analysis? I’d like to have a quick look… if I may?”.

Harry roots through the pile, locating the document. “Have at it.”

Pursing his lips, Theo rapidly runs his eyes over it. He lifts his head to address the room at large.

“I checked on some archaic lust potion recipes in my father’s collection of Dark works; according to that research, I calculate that each new experimental concoction takes approximately six to eight weeks to cure. If you assume that the failure of their last attempt to abduct a witch sent them back to the drawing board to refine the potion – that may be your rough timeline before they are prepared to strike again.”

He looks soberly across at Draco. “I searched thoroughly for the Manifesto – there was no sign of it. Sorry, Draco.”

Draco shrugs off his disappointment at the news. “Thanks for looking, Theo. If you think of anywhere else your father may have hidden it, let us know. I scoured the Manor after – after our trials, and I didn’t find anything like it at the time. The Aurors also went through the place with a fine-tooth comb; they never mentioned discovering it.”

He pauses. “Not that they necessarily would have bothered to tell us, unless they intended to use it as further evidence. Potter – do you think you could check on that? Officially? Please,” Draco adds stiffly as Harry arches his right eyebrow.

“Yes – shouldn’t be a problem,” Potter replies evenly. Although Draco remains riled by the teasing he’s been subjected to from his peers (and Blaise’s intimation that Theo has been deliberately flirting with Hermione), the mood in the room is surprisingly relaxed and collaborative. _Wonders will never cease._

“Does anyone have anything else to add?” Potter commences rising, butting his notes into some semblance of order.

Blaise speaks up. “I do – can we confirm that Hermione is the witch most recently targeted by these pricks? Being the incredibly intelligent and unique specimen of masculine perfection that I am – hey, they don’t call me ‘Blaise the Praised’ for nothing, _am I right_? – I already figured out that the gorgeous Ms Granger is Draco’s current (and enduring) obsession; but I want to know what exactly happened to her? And is she safe now?”.

Zabini’s customary impish expression hardens as he asks the last question. “You did promise to tell us all, Malfoy – at that first meeting in the White Wyvern,” he reminds Draco. “I reckon we’ve earned some transparency by now.”

“Why haven’t you told Zabini and Nott the particulars yet, Malfoy? I assumed you would have by now – given how you’ve entrusted them with chasing down leads.” Harry’s puzzlement is clear.

“Look – a huge part of the reason Hermione was so resistant to go to the Ministry and St Mungo’s for help after she was drugged is because she is paranoid about attracting more scandal – and censure. You of all people should understand that mindset, Potter,” Draco explains, huffing out an exasperated sigh.

“Despite the indisputable truth that she is a victim of a couple – or more – revolting predators, Hermione is worried that she will be blamed somehow. And I intend to do everything in my power to ensure she isn’t hurt by indiscriminate rumour-mongering, or judgemental arseholes who are simply jealous of her innate goodness, giftedness, and pure beauty…” Draco’s clipped, annoyed rationale fades away as he registers the smirking, pitying expressions of the other men.

“Dibs on being best man,” Blaise pipes up with a waggish grin. “Harry – reckon you’ll get a run as the maid of honour?”.

“It would be a privilege and a pleasure,” Harry comments, keeping a perfectly straight face. “Where are we thinking, for the reception?”

“OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Draco explodes as the tormenting trio fall about laughing at him.

“You can all shove it where the sun doesn’t shine – and stick it sideways, at that. Potter – tell this pair of twits whatever you deem appropriate. I have somewhere I need to be. Stay in touch.”

He slams out of the room with another of Blaise’s mockeries hot on his heels.

“Give the Golden Girl a big sloppy smooch from me, Draco – you delusional dummy!”

 _‘Blaise the Praised’ needs a proper bloody thrashing – I should have hexed him when I had the chance at the townhouse._ Draco stalks off in high dudgeon.

He is reasonably sure his face has cooled from ‘tropical swelter’ down to ‘comfortably warm’ when he arrives at Hermione’s work cubicle; Draco dabs a surreptitious hand to his brow to make sure he hasn’t succumbed to an embarrassing, temper-bred flop sweat. No, he is merely dewy. _Thank Merlin_.

Hermione’s straight little nose is buried deep in a gigantic legal text, her eyes skimming across the pages with fascinating rapidity. Draco has to tap lightly against the partition to attract her notice, such is her dedicated focus.

“Oh! Hello!” Hermione bangs her knee as she tries to push back from her desk, rubbing it ruefully as Draco leans in to do the same. Their heads clang together with a dull smack; both yelp and rebound.

“Ow!”

“Cripes!”

Covering his dinged left brow, Draco peers cautiously around his cupped hand. “Did you really just say ‘cripes’, Granger?”. He can’t help his amused grin at the old-fashioned expression.

“Did you really just creep up on me _again_ , Malfoy – and get your stealthy head knocked as a direct result? What’s wrong with ‘cripes’, anyway?” Hermione rebuts, prodding gingerly at the crown of her wildly curly head.

“Here – let me check,” Draco doesn’t wait for her assent as he swiftly moves to run his fingers gently and thoroughly through Hermione’s lush chestnut ringlets and scalp. She stills at his careful touch; and if he lingers a little longer than necessary for the injury inspection – she fails to comment.

Bringing his tingling hand back to his side, Draco hurries into speech.

“I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you, Granger – it’s not my fault you’re lost to the world when you fall into a book,” Draco justifies.

“Pfft.” Hermione rolls her eyes, but a tiny smile ticks up the corners of her shapely mouth.

“I just wanted to – that is, I thought I’d check – to see if you need any help. With security, and so forth,” Draco is disgusted by his sudden inability to enunciate complete, comprehensible sentences. He unnecessarily adjusts the knot of his dark silver silk tie.

“Is Macdolas settling in alright? Anything I need to talk to him about?”. Draco regathers his composure as Hermione smiles at the mention of the eager little house elf.

“Oh, Mac is a darling – I do wish I could get him to just call me ‘Hermione’, though. I’m worried his tiny tongue will be permanently twisted by all his adulatory titles,” she sighs good-naturedly.

Draco laughs, “Impossible to effect, I’m afraid. I’d somehow forgotten about your heroic reputation in the house elf community – Macdolas certainly hasn’t! What was that funny club you were forever banging on about at school? S.L.E.W?” he teases.

“Malfoy, you know perfectly well the acronym is ‘S.P.E.W.’,” Hermione primly reproaches. “The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare – and while I’m pleased and flattered that Mac appreciates my paltry emancipation efforts, it’s taking him half a minute to answer me every time I ask a simple question!”.

“Ah – that brilliant brain of yours will figure a way around it,” Draco states. Hermione stares at him, faint clouds of pink tinting her cheeks at his compliment.

“Well, I’d best leave you to it,” Draco can feel the damnably sensitive points of his lily white ears beginning to burn again.

“Will I see you Wednesday evening, Granger? Shall I come to your flat – makes it easier for you to head to work the next day? If that’s OK with you, of course.”

“Yes… that would be nice – I mean, sure. Mac will be thrilled with the opportunity to prepare dinner for us both,” Hermione agrees, twisting her hands in her lap.

“Excellent. Be safe, Granger.” Draco hesitates as she looks up through her luxuriant lashes. He quickly bends down to plant a firm kiss on her surprised lips.

“ _A mercredi, ma petite_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> 'Lauf, Liebling!' - German for 'Run, darling!'
> 
> 'A mercredi, ma petite.' - French for 'Until Wednesday, my little one'.


	22. Catamenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Bex_is_a_Slytherin.  
> Thank you for the 'Shark Week' prompt.  
> 

__

_Wednesday 05 March 2003: PM_

Hurrying out of her Floo fireplace, Hermione blenches involuntarily at the familiar deep pangs in her lower abdomen.

_Oh, no… not tonight_! But she knows her body well enough to recognize that the inevitable biological process is well underway. Biting her lip, she stifles a small squeal of surprise as Macdolas pops up beside the red Chesterfield, a huge grin of delight stretching his mouth nearly from one outsized ear to the other.

“Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger is home! Macdolas greets Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger with much joy and takes her bag –“ the well-loved black leather work bag is deftly plucked from Hermione’s left hand – “and asks Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger if Macdolas may have the honour of preparing her a refreshing beverage?”. Macdolas vibrates with anxious eagerness as he awaits her response.

Had Hermione not been suffering sudden, painful cramps, she would have found Macdolas’s outfit du jour much more outrageously amusing; the little steward is wearing a late medieval costume that is strongly reminiscent of… _The Black Adder_! She smothers a hearty chuckle with some difficulty. The form-fitting doublet with massively belled, strategically slashed sleeves.. the knee-shortened trousers with attached hose and exaggeratedly long, pointy leather shoes… the tall ‘inverted flower pot’ sugar loaf conical hat – they could have stepped straight from an episode of the cult British comedy’s first series.

What really sets the apparel apart is (of course) Macdolas’s unique colour stamp. His love of bright, clashing colours is today reflected in the combination of lurid satsuma orange for the tunic and trousers and royal purple for the sleeves’ pulled-through under-tunic, opaque hose, and hat. _Merlin’s tender mercies_ … the overall visual effect is glaring enough to blind the unwary.

_Well, at least Macdolas went with Edmund’s wardrobe and not Baldrick’s_ , Hermione consoles herself. Seeing a copy of Blackadder’s guileful manservant’s sock-like felted hat stretched over Macdolas’s large ears would’ve have had her collapsing in a guffawing heap, regardless of her desire to spare his sweet feelings.

“You look quite… dazzling tonight, Mac,” Hermione settles on an appropriate adjective as she allows Macdolas to lead her into the kitchen. “Um, no drink for me just at the moment, thank you. I’m just going to duck to the loo; excuse me.”

It doesn’t take long before Hermione has confirmation of the cause of her currently enfeebling physical condition. She hobbles back to the kitchen to ask a favour of Macdolas.

The cheery sprite is humming tunelessly along with the low volume of the little kitchen radio; Hermione has apparently created a pop music monster since she’d first explained the workings and dials of the transistor to Mac. He turns from the small sink, blotting his hands fastidiously on his wildly ruffled beige cotton apron.

“Macdolas, may I ask you to do something for me, please?” Hermione hesitantly asks, mulling over the best way to couch her request.

Before her sentence is complete, Macdolas is strenuously bobbing his head up and down. “Macdolas leaps at the great distinction of completing a boon for Her Grace Lady Mistress Granger!”.

Hermione gently grasps his lowering shoulders before Macdolas can complete his courtly bow.

“Macdolas – I really must insist that you cease bowing, and stop addressing me by that complicated, drawn-out title,” she firmly instructs. At his crestfallen expression, she compromises a little. “What if you just call me Mistress Hermione?”.

His pale jade eyes instantly round in horror. Hermione hastens to jazz up the nomenclature.

“Well – how about ‘Grace Lady Granger?” she smiles encouragingly. “‘Grace’ was my beloved grandmother’s name… and having you address me thusly would bring respect and glory to the House of Granger.” She maintains a perfectly straight face – somehow – despite the hilarious silliness of pretending to be anything other than a run-of-the-mill, plebeian Englishwoman.

To her immense relief, she has struck exactly the right note. Macdolas nods fervently in agreement with the suggestion he can honour her family lineage with the adapted title.

“Macdolas is profoundly grateful for the honour to pay homage to the venerated ancestry of Grace Lady Granger,” he solemnly declares.

_Well. It’s a start._ Hermione glances at the readout on the oven clock – 6PM. Draco isn’t due to arrive for dinner until seven, so the late notice shouldn’t be an issue.

“Macdolas, would you please find Draco and tell him I need to cancel our arrangement – that is, our dinner plans this evening? I’m not feeling well, and it’s best if we don’t see one another tonight,” Hermione tries not to blush at the ‘arrangement’ slip-up.

Her small but fierce elvish bodyguard segues straight into protective knight mode. “Grace Lady Granger is ill? Macdolas fetches a Healer, or Side-Apparates Grace Lady Granger to St Mungo’s this very minute!” he reaches agitatedly for her hand.

“No, please don’t fret, Mac – I’m not sick… merely indisposed,” Hermione hedges. _Dagnabbit – I’m going to have to tell him plainly what’s wrong._

Macdolas is still thrumming with custodial apprehension. Hermione lays a hand reassuringly on his giant puffy orange and regalia purple sleeve but the sheer volume of fabric resists her attempt to contact his scrawny arm.

“I’ve recently begun my period, Mac. Do you know what that means? Menstruation?”. The upside-down flower pot hat wobbles dangerously as he dips his head in mute acknowledgment.

Relieved she needn’t run her borrowed house elf through a makeshift lesson in female biology, Hermione briefly explains, “I have painful cramps at present, Mac; but they will pass with time and some Muggle medicine. Maybe a hot water bottle. And perhaps Part One of my _Pride and Prejudice_ mini-series video,” she adds as an afterthought. Macdolas blinks, clearly baffled by the last.

She impulsively kneels to enfold him in a light, careful hug.

“But thank you for being such a dear, caring friend, Macdolas. I appreciate your help greatly, you know,” Hermione flinches as she rises to her feet; the heavy, painful knots in her lower belly have ramped up another level.

“Grace Lady Granger has hugged Macdolas… and called him her _friend_ ,” Mac whispers reverently, his exophthalmic celery-green eyes swimming with emotion. “Macdolas never forgets the immense glory of this night.”

_Oh, crap._ Before Hermione can reply, Macdolas nods determinedly and Apparates from the kitchen with an abrupt crack.

Glad no one can see her weary eye roll, Hermione digs around in the pantry until she locates the paracetamol and ibuprofen packets. She pops two of each and gulps them down with half a glass of water.

Something smells utterly fantastic in here. Hermione sniffs appreciatively; her inkling of the cause is happily confirmed as she lifts the lid off the big pot simmering on the stove top. Pea and ham soup! And Macdolas has a loaf of crusty home-made bread warming in the oven, if she’s not mistaken.

_I’m beginning to appreciate the benefits of domestic staff_ , Hermione meditates with a semi-shamed little grin. She is tempted to ladle a bowlful of the fragrant soup right now, but she already knows Mac would be grievously wounded by the lost opportunity to be of service in that department.

Wandering slowly to her bedroom to change into her comfortable crimson sleepwear set, Hermione broods over the astonishing reality that she is currently being cared for – and _guarded_ – by the Malfoys’ fiercely loyal house elf. And by extension, Draco Malfoy himself. Un-freaking-believable.

It feels weirdly natural, though… just like Sunday’s breakfast in her tiny kitchen. Macdolas had happily buzzed about, anticipating their every culinary need with avid attention and efficiency. Admittedly, he’d turned his huge green eyes in Hermione’s direction at every spare opportunity, but with reverent admiration and joy.

And Draco… sitting opposite, unabashedly wearing her ratty pink dressing gown as though he’d been garbed in princely silken robes. His silvered eyes frequently catching with her own. Exchanging small, secret smiles at Macdolas’s adoration-infused regard. His strong white teeth crunching into her crispy bacon as he’d filched one morsel after another. Smirking as she’d pretended great offense and drilled her forefinger into his reaching arm.

Afterwards (once he’d dressed in his own clothing, thankfully), Draco had briefly left with Macdolas. They’d Apparated back into her lounge room, levitating a small, garnet-red, beautifully crafted antique chaise longue between them, proceeding to settle it into the poky far back corner of her living space, ignoring her clamouring protests.

Draco had left Mac to fuss over the ideal placement of the borrowed sofa as he’d facetiously enquired, “Would you mind if we set up a little snug for Macdolas to sleep, Granger? With your permission, of course.” The smug prat had known Hermione didn’t want to risk hurting Mac’s feelings by arguing over it – thus presenting her with a fait accompli.

Hermione had let it slide and instead had narrowed her eyes to query suspiciously, “Where did that chaise come from, Malfoy? It looks terribly expensive.” In fact, it had appeared as though King Louis XIV himself had only recently surrendered its possession.

“Oh, it’s been languishing in a back parlour of the Manor for years,” Draco had airily dismissed her concerns. “No one will miss it.” He’d slapped his hands together to remove (non-existent) dust, before he’d steered an appalled Hermione around the corner and into the narrow hallway - just out of sight of his industrious manservant. The sly blond devil had caged her against the smooth cream wall and effectively disarmed her heated objections by kissing her senseless.

They’d broken apart – flushed, rumpled and decidedly dazed – at Macdolas’s discreet cough. Draco had smoothed a thick, lustrous curl behind Hermione’s right ear as he’d bid her goodbye and used the Floo fireplace to return to his townhouse.

Leaving her with a beaming house elf and a rapid heart rate.

Hermione breaks off from her heated recollections as she flops gingerly onto the velvet-upholstered Chesterfield. Hopefully Macdolas will shortly return from his messenger errand and she can ask him to please dish her up some of his toothsome soup and warm, buttered bread. The hot comfort food will ease the effect of the painkilling medications into her system.

She’s already popped the _Pride and Prejudice_ video into the VCR and paused it at the opening credits; there’s no harm eating in front of the television tonight. It’s not as though Macdolas will take offence. Hermione closes her strained eyes as she huddles deeper into the couch, clutching a plush cushion to her sore tummy.

_I’ll just ‘check out the inside of my eyelids’ until Mac comes back._ Hermione turns her head and instantly dozes off.

* * *

“Granger – what’s wrong?” The low, worry-laced words slowly penetrate her muzzy mind. Gentle, strong hands cup her cheek and shoulder as she turns toward the speaker.

Draco is crouched beside the lounge; Macdolas is hovering by Hermione’s woolly-socked feet, quivering as he scowls at his long-time employer. Hermione confusedly notices that the faddish sugar loaf hat is askew atop Mac’s head.

“Master Malfoy insists on accompanying Macdolas to the abode of Lady Grace Granger – Master Malfoy asks Macdolas many questions about the nature of Lady Grace Granger’s indisposition, but Macdolas cannot and will not betray the sacred confidence of his most Esteemed Lady!”. The fretful mite slaps at his head, dislodging the comical hat sideways.

Draco intervenes as Hermione gasps. “Settle down, Macdolas – and for the love of snakes, stop walloping yourself! You’ve not betrayed anything or anyone; hence why I came back here with you. Be still while I speak with Hermione, please.”

Hearing her Christian name on Draco’s lips – even though he’s not directly addressing her – makes Hermione’s stomach twist in an entirely different way to the menstrual spasms she’s experiencing. She pushes herself to a sitting position, Draco helping to guide her upright and propping the downy cushion behind her head.

“Now, please tell me what’s going on,” Draco looks searchingly into her tired mocha eyes, petting her right hand soothingly with his left. Hermione’s breath hitches; she is growing increasingly receptive to the simplest of his touches.

_But damn – must I tell every Y chromosome-coded creature in Greater London about this??_ She girds her loins ( _ooh, terrible pun, woman!_ ) to answer Malfoy clearly and candidly.

“I started my period this evening, and I usually experience painful cramps, fatigue, and hormone-driven melancholy and/or mood swings for the first twenty-four hour period of my menstrual cycle,” Hermione explains.

As she’s speaking, Hermione tries to guess at Draco’s likely reaction: shock? Horror? Frozen in fright? Or perhaps Ron’s habitual modus operandi – becoming an amateur magician and perfecting vanishing for the next four to five days?

_This should be interesting._

But Macdolas sniffs haughtily before Draco can respond. “Master Malfoy has meddled – Macdolas told the Master that Grace Lady Granger needed none other than her _friend_ Macdolas!”.

Draco shifts, incredulous. “You jealous little – “ he breaks off as his cool control kicks in. “Macdolas, it would behove you greatly at this moment to make yourself useful by fetching Hermione and myself some dinner.”

“And get out of my sight,” he grates, but not quite loudly enough for Macdolas to register.

“Please,” Hermione tacks on as Macdolas nods curtly at Draco before smiling widely at her. She chokes back a chuckle at Draco’s patent annoyance.

Muscular arms crossed, Draco rolls his eyes as he dryly observes, “Congratulations, Granger – it’s not even taken you a week to turn my own house elf against me and completely bewitch him. I’d best inform Ruibby that her devoted would-be swain has decamped.”

Hermione’s spontaneous laugh at Malfoy’s drollness fades to a small groan as her tight abdominal muscles protest the movement. Draco drops back to her side immediately and takes hold of her hand once more.

“Granger – what can I do? Just tell me, please,” Draco is making uncertain, jerky gestures over her semi-prone body with his free hand. He even slips his wand from his navy trouser pocket to twitch it near her slightly distended tummy.

“You can’t magick away period pain, Malfoy!” Hermione isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry; his jumpy concern is both comical and touching. _Don’t forget your hormones are bonkers right now_ , she cautions her silly heart.

“Of course I know that!” Draco indignantly retorts. “I know all about female biology and menstruation!”.

“You do?” Hermione echoes sceptically.

Malfoy sticks his wand back into his pocket before arrogantly proclaiming, “Of course. I did read that alarming green book you threw at me in the library back in Fifth Year.” He snidely recites, ‘Managing your Menstruation: A Witch’s Guide to Womanhood’? Yeah. Fascinating text.”

Draco cackles at Hermione’s floored expression. “Hah! Cat got your tongue, Golden Girl?”. The soft squeeze of his hand around hers belies his taunt as Draco’s eyes crinkle charmingly with his easy smile.

“Speaking of which – excuse me a moment, please,” Malfoy carefully places her hand on the sofa, pivoting and striding to the kitchen. Curious, Hermione strains her hearing to its full capabilities but cannot make out more than the occasional word as Draco converses briefly with Macdolas.

Both males return to the lounge room a minute later. Macdolas proudly bustles to the coffee table to solicitously place a laden tray in front of Hermione. Draco follows with his own plate, bowl, and cutlery. Hermione swings her pyjamaed legs to the floor and smiles appreciatively at her little helper.

“Thank you, Mac – this looks and smells wonderful,” she lauds Macdolas’s efforts. Indeed it does: the green pea puree and smoky, salty ham flavours are making her mouth water. “And you made the bread yourself – how clever!”.

Macdolas preens like one of the Malfoy’s legendary white peacocks at her acclamation. “Grace Lady Granger is too kind,” he bows as he helps to settle the tray upon her lap. He cuts a side-eyed glare at Draco, who is now seated in a similar position beside Hermione.

“Macdolas is sent on a highly important mission by Master Malfoy now. He returns post-haste!”. Another small bang of Apparation and he is gone.

Hermione and Draco begin eating without further ado; Hermione hums appreciatively at the satisfyingly rich sustenance.

“Macdolas is turning into a right little shite – but the cheeky rascal can cook,” Draco dourly admits.

“He’s just taking his temporary role of protector seriously,” Hermione protests, mumbling around a mouthful of hearty soup.

“Bollocks! He’ll be measuring you for a life-sized golden statue before you can say ‘Grace Lady Granger’,” Draco jests. “Which reminds me – how _did_ you manage to pare down Macdolas’s absurd string of honorary titles?”.

“I sacrificed my egalitarian soul on the altar of archaic class distinctions,” Hermione groans. “Please leave it at that, Malfoy.”

Draco chuckles boyishly at her answer. Hermione pauses her spoon halfway to her mouth, arrested by the sheer beauty of the man beside her. _And he’s not even trying_ , her brain grumbles. A still-smiling Malfoy catches her oblique glance before she can cut her eyes back to her food.

“Have I spilled soup on my face?” Draco frowns as he dabs blindly at his immaculate countenance.

“No – I was just thinking how handsome you are,” Hermione burbles the truth before she can think better of it.

“Oh.” Swallowing unnecessarily, Draco stares silently down at his half-emptied soup bowl. Despite her own embarrassment, Hermione is perplexed by Malfoy’s marked abashment at her frank compliment.

“Why does that bother you so?” she asks quietly, keeping her eyes on her meal as Draco takes a choppy breath.

There is a long gap before he replies. “It doesn’t speak to character, does it? It means nothing, not really. Just an accident of genes. It reminds me… it reminds me that I’m just a shell. Even the glossiest apple may be rotten at the core.”

Dinner forgotten, Hermione rushes hotly to rebut Draco’s harrowing belief.

“Malfoy – how can you think so little of yourself? You truly think you’re just a pretty face? You’re – you’re one of the best men I know. And I’m best friends with _Harry-bloody-Potter_! You’re intelligent, witty, thoughtful, loyal… generous, and kind – though you _will_ try to hide the best of yourself behind that arrogant, highborn façade.”

Hermione angrily shoves her tray onto the coffee table, swivelling to not-so-gently grasp and turn Draco’s averted face.

“Ever since I washed up on your stoop like human jetsam – you’ve been simply marvellous. You took me into your home, cared for me – you washed me clean of vomit! Clothed and fed me, guided me through Legilimency… and supported me with the Ministry investigation. Your family’s house elf is now my personal, live-in bodyguard – and you honestly think that you bring nothing to the world but _good looks_?”.

Hermione’s voice booms around the cosy lounge room as she lets loose her indignant outrage.

“And you tell ME I have self-esteem issues?!? AARGH! For such a brilliant man – you’re a proper blockhead sometimes!”.

Releasing Malfoy’s thunderstruck face, Hermione moves to scoop up her jangled tray, preparing to return it to the kitchen. A gentle masculine hand on her arm halts her movements.

Draco sidles over until their bodies are joined from hip to shoulder; he cautiously draws her cranky head against his shoulder in an awkward, grateful hug. Hermione’s arms slowly return the embrace. His heart is pattering crazily against her left ear.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into her buoyant mahogany curls. She squeezes him tighter, her own heart stuttering erratically. She closes her misty eyes to nestle a little closer.

The sharp sound of Macdolas’s Apparation interrupts their poignant moment.

“Macdolas has returned!” he triumphantly announces. The manikin is holding a small vial in one twiggy hand, and a fancily wrapped square box in the other.

Hermione pushes off Draco’s chest to sit upright, still tucked into his side. He keeps his right arm curved around her waist, lean fingers tracing tiny circles onto her sleep shirt.

“Thank you, Macdolas. Would you place them on the table, please? I’ll help you clean up.” Draco gives Hermione’s hip a final light pat as he rises.

“No – you stay put, Granger,” he commands, as Hermione tries to get to her feet. Macdolas looks scandalized.

“Grace Lady Granger mustn’t bestir her blessed self – and Master Malfoy needn’t think Macdolas shirks his professional duties!” he squeaks, floating their used dinnerware into the air and toward the kitchen with a swift flick of his skinny wrists. The items he brought back with him fly into Draco’s hands rather forcefully.

“Dinner was lovely – thank you, Mac!” Hermione calls out after the busy little elf. Her words cover Draco’s miffed grunt.

“He did that on purpose – you saw that, didn’t you?”.

She ignores his irked petition. “What did Mac bring back for you, Malfoy?”.

He hesitates. “This –“ he holds out the stoppered tube – “is a potion I developed for my mother years ago. To help ease her menstrual cramps… I sort of got the idea after I read that book you tossed at me.”

Misinterpreting Hermione’s incredulous expression, Draco assures her, “It’s quite safe – I tested it thoroughly, and Mother’s been using it for years without ill-effects. Up to you, of course.”

He doesn’t wait for a response as he pushes the beribboned box into her hands.

“I thought this might help, too.”

Hermione childishly rattles the mystery parcel; it is light, but small objects faintly chatter together inside. Curiosity piqued, she quickly undoes the wrappings, revealing a familiar brown and gold box.

“You… you bought me Godiva truffles?” Hermione whispers. Her tremulous fingers worshipfully stroke the glossy box of chocolates. _The twenty-four piece Classic Selection, no less._

Suddenly overwhelmed, Hermione snatches the unexpected, glorious gift to her chest and bursts into excitable tears.

Draco frantically rubs her heaving back. “Hey, hey, hey – it’s OK – they’re just chocolates! I can ask Macdolas to bring you something else if they’re the wrong ones. Wait – I have Kit Kats at the townhouse –“

“These are my absolute favourite!” Hermione howls. Malfoy is a vague, concerned blur through her watering eyes. “I warned you I was hormonal!”.

“Oh, Granger – please calm down, else Macdolas runs back in and curses me for upsetting you,” Draco begs in alarm.

“S’alright… just give me a minute,” Hermione makes a concerted effort to quieten her sobs; they decrease to hiccoughs as Draco carefully sponges her wet face with his snowy handkerchief.

Still clutching the truffle box, Hermione reaches for the video remote. “Would you like to watch _Pride and Prejudice_ with me? It always makes me feel better.”

“By all means,” Draco fervently agrees.

Grabbing the furry ruby throw rug, Draco arranges it to cover them both from the waist down. He guides an unresisting Hermione to lean against him as the mini-series begins to play.

She attempts to concentrate on the skilled portrayal of Jane Austen’s masterpiece, but the solid comfort of Draco’s embrace soon lulls her into closing her eyes and listening to his reactions to the drama instead. At some point, Macdolas brings in a flannel-covered hot water bottle, which Hermione gratefully wedges against her bloated tummy.

Malfoy’s chuckles at Mrs Bennett’s machinations make her smile in fellow feeling. His right hand is now idly combing through her hair, beginning at her scalp and trailing down to the nape of her neck, before repeating the action. No one has performed this small tenderness for her since she was an upset or sick child, nestling against her soothing mother. The thought makes her want to cry again, but Hermione quashes any more waterworks. She snuggles a little closer.

Dimly, Hermione becomes aware that her comfy, warm mattress is shifting. Draco loops her arms around his neck as he adjusts her exhausted body in his arms.

“Let’s get you safely tucked into bed, Granger. Hold onto me, please.” He effortlessly hoists her off the couch as she docilely obeys his instruction. A sudden thought pops into her fuzzy head.

“Wait – I didn’t try your potion yet.”

“It’s in my pocket – I’ll leave it by the bed, you can take it if the cramping wakes you in the night,” Draco continues walking them to her room. Soon he is manoeuvring her beneath the covers, fussing at them until Hermione is uniformly covered from neck to toe. He leans to switch off her lamp.

“Goodnight, Granger. I hope you feel better on the morrow,” he eases away a stray strand from her forehead.

“You’re not coming to bed?” Hermione fails to keep the plaintive disappointment from her query.

A long pause elapses. “I didn’t think you’d want me here,” Draco slowly replies.

“I’d… like it if you stayed,” Hermione shyly confesses. “You make me feel better. But you don’t have to… if it’s too much of an imposition…”

Draco’s answer is the sound of him hurriedly shucking his clothes in the darkened bedroom. He clambers beneath the bedlinens and mindfully gathers Hermione to drape across his muscular form.

She manages one more sentence before slumber beckons to her again.

“I didn’t throw that green library book at you, by the way – I merely pushed it into your chest. Served you right for crowding me like that,” Hermione corrects his earlier remark.

“You threw it – but now’s not the time to quibble. _Dors maintenant, ma petite_.”

_I’ll just pretend that means Draco knows I’m right but won’t admit it_ , Hermione decides as she drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation:
> 
> "Dors maintenant, ma petite." - Go to sleep now, little one.
> 
> Here is the link for the short one-shot that references Draco and Hermione's interaction in the Hogwarts library in Fifth Year,  
> 'Skirmish in the stacks':  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/24330949


	23. Classification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who loves the wondrous world of Pride and Prejudice.

__

_Thursday 06 March 2003: PM_

Draco alternates between pacing before his hearth and perching restlessly on the powder-blue couch, intermittently checking his heavy silver wristwatch. Two soft bundles wrapped in burgundy paper are stacked on the far end of the lowline sofa.

 _You don’t need to go over there tonight – just leave the packages until Saturday evening. She’s probably had a big day at work… the last thing she needs is you turning up like a bad penny._ Draco sits back down again.

 _But you do need to make sure she doesn’t need any more of the menstrual potion; and it wouldn’t hurt to check that impudent little monkey Macdolas isn’t making a nuisance of himself_. Resolved, he stands up and gathers the parcels beneath one strong arm.

And steps into the Floo fireplace before he can talk himself out of the decision for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Opening his eyes a few moments later, Draco waits for the familiar gyrating sensation to subside before he steps out of Hermione’s ingle. A three-foot high whirlwind hurtles from the direction of the kitchen as he moves toward the lounge room’s archway.

Macdolas is the very picture of protective savagery as he materializes in front of Draco. His disproportionately large grape-green eyes blaze menace, and his raw-boned arms are thrust upward in a preliminary warding-off movement.

Upon recognizing his primary employer, Macdolas’s fierce stance eases; not completely though, Draco dryly notes.

“Oh. Master Malfoy graces us with his illustrious presence,” Macdolas flatly declares, crossing his arms like a disapproving daddy as he plants himself stolidly in Draco’s path. “Master Malfoy does not inform Macdolas nor Grace Lady Granger of his impending visit,” he chides.

 _Wonderful – I’m being chipped by my own snippety shrimp of a house elf_. Draco shakes his head at the absurdity of it all.

“Step aside, Macdolas – you forget who pays your salary. And by the looks of that suit, I fear I’m over-generous with your remuneration,” he warns.

Today’s ensemble is relatively tame (at least by Macdolas’s usual criteria): a circus ringmaster’s stylized tuxedo. Single-buttoned, triangular lapels on a long-tailed buttercup yellow jacket over a mustard silk waistcoat, white shirt, and black trousers and boots. Jet top hat with a mustard trim band; the Dijon accent is repeated on the wide jacket cuffs and bow tie. Pristine white gloves. The jacket button is a polished gold circle as big as a Galleon… because it _is_ a Galleon, Draco realizes. _Chuffing hell._

“Where’s your whip?” he facetiously enquires. “I’ve come to see the little lioness, in any case.”

On cue, Hermione pokes her startled head around the corner of the doorway. Her face relaxes, breaking into a wide, unselfconscious smile as she sees Draco baled up beside the lounge.

“Malfoy! Mac didn’t tell me you were coming over tonight!”

“Master Malfoy fails to advise Macdolas of his intended visitation! Macdolas fears intruders when he hears the Floo, Grace Lady Granger!”. The aggrieved steward bristles with umbrage.

“Yes, yes – we’ve covered this already,” Draco pushes past the miniature steward, his own lips curving as he swiftly assesses Hermione’s physical appearance. He is relieved to see that her eyes are much brighter and her posture less constrained.

“How are you feeling, Granger? I don’t suppose you took my sage advice and skipped work today?”. He references their little early morning spat after he’d lightly kissed her sleepy forehead before returning to the townhouse.

Hermione shakes her head rebelliously. “I told you – I felt well enough to go in, Malfoy. I took some of your potion when I got up for the loo last night, and it worked wonders,” she smiles gratefully. They stare at each other for a few mute moments.

Draco pulls the back-up vial from his front jeans pocket. “I brought over some more – I thought perhaps you might need it,” he diffidently states.

“Oh, thank you. But won’t your mother miss it?” Hermione hesitates to accept the proffered ampoule.

“No – she’s perimenopausal now, so I’ve adapted the potion for her,” Draco reveals. _Shit! I didn’t intend to broadcast my mother’s fertility status in front of my… lover, and house elf._ He castigates his blabbermouth.

Hermione processes the information equitably, merely folding her lips together and widening her eyes. Macdolas pips censoriously, “Macdolas believes Lady Malfoy would not care for her beloved son to discuss such matters, Master Malfoy.”

“Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be hollering hyperbole in a Big Top circus tent somewhere?” Draco irefully suggests, nettled by the reprimand.

Wrapping her graceful hand around Draco’s tensed forearm, Hermione tugs him away from the frowning little manservant. “Malfoy, would you mind helping me with something, please? I rashly decided to reorganize my wardrobe, and I could use an independent opinion on what stays and what goes,” she urges. “I think it’s a delayed ‘nesting’ impulse – and it’s really gotten out of hand.”

He allows himself to be led from the living room and into Hermione’s bedroom; she pushes him to sit on the scant square of bed not currently heaped with female attire. He deposits his two packages next to his right hip.

Draco’s irritation dissipates as he smirks, “Love what you’ve done with the place… did you drop a Bombastic Bomb in your closet, Granger?”.

Her response is to throw a hairy dark rouge Gryffindor jumper at his head; Draco’s reflexes bat it to the floor before it makes contact.

“Ugh – it burns!” he hams it up, cradling his ‘singed’ left hand to his chest. Hermione bursts into a giggle, despite her primly reproachful expression. Draco collapses back onto the pillows and laughs along with her.

Hermione’s chuckles trickle off. Her sweet face is pensive as she picks up the discarded Hogwarts sweater and folds it atop a precarious stack. She pauses her rummaging to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco against the curved cherrywood headboard.

“Do you ever think that things might’ve have been quite different if we weren’t ritually sorted into the Hogwarts Houses, Malfoy?” Hermione chews at her full bottom lip, her whiskey eyes troubled.

Draco stretches out his ‘injured’ hand to gently tweak a burnished ringlet. “How do you mean, Granger?”. He winds the curl around his index finger, admiring its pliable softness and sheen.

Hermione sighs sadly.

“Is anyone’s character truly formed when they’re eleven years old? I know mine wasn’t. And yet… we all merrily sat on a stool to allow a motley, semi-sentient _hat_ to dictate our futures with a single word… Ravenclaw! Intelligent, witty, wise. Hufflepuff! Patient, just, loyal. Gryffindor! Brave, chivalrous, courageous. Slytherin! Ambitious, resourceful, cunning.”

Hermione’s right hand rises to absently chafe at the left sleeve of her dusky pink cable-knit pullover. Draco quickly covers her restless appendage with his own hand, folding down their fingers together onto her thigh. Her subconscious tic of scratching at her forearm scar never fails to leave an acidic taste in his mouth.

Thick eyelashes shield Hermione’s eyes as she continues. “What if the Sorting Hat both defined and limited us, Malfoy? What if it served to further underline the old prejudices? Pureblood versus Muggleborn is an easier path to travel when you are reluctant to even sit at the same table with a quarter of your classmates.” She falls silent as Draco firms his grip on her hand.

“I agree.” Draco’s sober tone matches Hermione’s. “It fostered hatred as well as solidarity.”

“Exactly!” Hermione thumps their joined hands up and down in her vehement accord. “And besides – it wasn’t infallible. Take me, for example.”

Draco scrunches his nose in mystification. “How on earth can you argue you aren’t the ultimate embodiment of ‘Gryffindor-ific’, Granger?”.

Hermione swings to face him. “Malfoy - I’m cunning and sly, too. Manipulative… reckless… consumed by righteousness. I’ve hurt people I love because I determined that I alone knew what was best for them, and acted accordingly.” She disengages their handhold to defensively huddle her arms around her torso.

“Bullshit!” Draco hotly defends against the ludicrous declaration. He sits up higher, annoyed by her self-vituperation. ‘You can’t possibly expect me to give that hogwash any traction whatsoever.”

“I trapped Rita Skeeter in her Animagus beetle-form in a jar for a week, during the Triwizard Tournament,” Hermione confesses in a gibbering rush.

She holds up her hand to stay the questions bubbling behind his graphite eyes. “I discovered she was an unregistered Animagus, and was using her skill to eavesdrop on private conversations and get all the ‘scoops’ for The Daily Prophet. And of course, Skeeter was deliberately writing out-and-out gossipy lies to discredit Harry and slur us both.”

 _Ah. The Potter/Granger/Krum fictitious love triangle that had gleefully embroiled the Golden Trio in vicious scandal._ Draco nods.

“I cast an Unbreakable Charm on a glass jar and stuffed Beetle Rita in it; I didn’t set her free until she agreed to that unbiased, factually accurate interview with Harry for The Quibbler. I blackmailed her, Malfoy… I told her I would expose her unregistered Animagus status and thoroughly discredit her professionally if she broke the terms of our agreement.”

In a quiet afterthought, Hermione adds, “I meant it, too.”

“Is it wrong that I’m extraordinarily turned-on by your ingenious deviousness?” Draco breathes. He backtracks as Hermione shoots him an exasperated glare.

“Sorry – I was jesting.” _A little._ He attempts to placate her obvious perturbation. “Granger, in the grand scheme of things – that’s pretty small fry. And eminently understandable, under the circumstances.”

“I haven’t finished.” Hermione ducks her head, swallowing nervously. She gulps a deep inhale before she makes eye contact once more.

“Before we went on the run hunting Horcruxes in Seventh Year… I performed a Memory Modification Charm on my parents before we left. Without their prior knowledge or consent. Because _I’d_ decided there was no other way to keep them safe from Voldemort.”

Draco tries to clasp her hand again, but Hermione is wringing both in her lap.

She whispers, “I changed their names – their identities – and incepted the compulsion for them to immediately relocate to Australia. They’d always talked about the possibility. I thought that Australia was the farthest, safest place for them. All it took to orphan myself was two simple words – ‘ _Memoria_ _Immutatio’_ – and some nifty wandwork.” A tear rolls quietly down each velvet cheek. Her limpid chocolate eyes are brimming ponds reflecting guilt and grief.

 _Oh, ma précieuse femme_ … Draco ignores her initial stiff resistance as he enfolds her against his chest and gently rubs her shaking back. Hermione’s sad voice is muffled but still intelligible as she continues her tale.

“Wendell and Monica Wilkins settled in Sydney and had no idea they’d ever had a daughter until I finally stopped my cowardly dithering and procrastinating and came looking for them. Took me over a year, mind you. I wasn’t sure if I should even try… I thought they might be better off never knowing the truth.”

Her tears are rolling unchecked, dampening Draco’s cream Aran sweater. He rocks her closer, heart burning. Much as he yearns to stop Hermione reliving the trauma - he recognizes that she needs to unburden herself.

“But I walked into their surgery – they’re dentists, you probably don’t know –“

“I know,” Draco confirms. “Keep going, please.”

Hermione shudders and hitches a few times before she can comply. “I walked in… and they were both standing at reception. I was the last appointment of the day, and Dad looked up first. And in that first moment, he _saw_ me. He recognized me, and I swear, his lips started to form my name… But then, his face cleared, and he simply introduced himself as Wendell Wilkins. Dad said I reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who,” Hermione says wryly. “I told them I was Jean, and Mum… Mum commented that they’d always liked the name.” She sobs a strangled breath.

“I spent a fortnight out there, that first visit. At first our contact was through more appointments – I claimed I was finicky about dental health, then we developed a friendship… and I kept seeing little signs that maybe they _did_ still know me, somewhere buried deep. I wrestled with it, for another couple of weeks; but I finally decided that I had to at least try to get them back. So I found an experienced Healer and went back to Sydney with her, and we spent a month taking one step forward and five steps back. Every day, dealing with their confusion and distress and anger… only to repeat it in the next session.”

A lone sympathetic tear plops off Draco’s angular chin to join the wetness soaking into his fisherman’s knitted sweater. He hugs her tighter but daren’t interrupt.

The distraught witch in his arms cries soundlessly, shoulders shaking as she strives to regain enough composure to finish her sorrowful recollection.

“Dad – he remembered – well, he _continued_ to remember – first. It took Mum another couple of days. But Dad… he was so angry, and disappointed. He accused me of taking away their choices, of essentially stealing their right to their memories and not trusting them to be my parents. He was right, Malfoy.”

Hermione casts about for something with which to wipe her streaming eyes and nose; she locates a moth-eaten Gryffindor scarf and blots her face before Draco can offer his trusty handkerchief. He daubs his own face with it instead.

“I was a coward – I memory-wiped them from behind while they were watching the telly – I didn’t tell you that, did I? Dad said I should have just asked them to emigrate… he told me they would have gone, once they understood the full gravity of the danger we were in.”

Draco has had more than enough of Hermione’s tormented self-flagellation.

“No. Your father was wrong, Granger. It’s easy to declare that they would have voluntarily fled to the other side of the world for their own safety, but even if that were true – they would have had no protection against Voldemort and his minions breaching their memories, had they been tracked down. And they _would_ have been, sooner or later.”

Nausea roils in his stomach as Draco tips up Hermione’s chin to stare into her lachrymose cocoa orbs.

“Granger… even you don’t realize the grave extent of the danger you and your parents faced. Voldemort – “ his voice cracks. Draco tries again.

“At the Manor – usually after a daily session torturing and murdering hapless Muggles or ‘blood traitors’ – Voldemort and his disgusting cronies liked to riff about and feed their sick fantasies of punishing The Golden Trio and their families. I won’t ever tell you what I overheard – don’t ask me, OK? – but trust me, your parents were high up on the Most Wanted List. Your father has no right to castigate your choices. You did what you did to keep them safe… I understand impossible choices. Because the alternative is unthinkable.”

He has to close his mouth, lest the bile rising in his throat takes proper hold and he retches all over the clothing chaos on Hermione’s bed. The memory of those awful days and nights as he sat silently at the long dining room table of Voldemort’s war council flashes through his mind.

Keeping his fair head bowed, torn between blocking the depraved conversations and his fear that he will miss something vitally important if he does wall himself off. Watching and _feeling_ his parents’ carefully disguised anxiety and fear. Occasionally forcing himself to eat a few mouthfuls of terror-tainted victuals and walking a mental razor’s edge with his Occlumency abilities as Voldemort and Bellatrix took turns violating his psyche. The indescribable relief of finally being excused, only to spend countless minutes hunched over the lavatory, regurgitating the few morsels he’d managed to choke down, along with copious quantities of burning stomach acid. Catching scraps of nightmare-infused sleep once he’d emptied his guts to a hollow husk; waking curled around the toilet bowl, ashen face pressed against the cold tile. Crawling to his feet to begin the process all over again.

Hermione must see some of Draco’s traumatic trip down memory lane on his face; her weeping eases as she squeezes her arms around his back, almost hard enough to hurt.

Draco has one more thing he must say to her.

“Potter and the We- Weasley, they don’t fully understand why this haunts you, do they?” he rhetorically asks, not waiting for her tiny nod to continue.

“Potter has no memory of what it’s like, having parents who love you and whom you love in return, right? And Weasley’s been spoiled by the sheer quantity of his familial connections – what with his parents and dozen siblings.’

He anticipates Granger’s automatic correction before she can voice it. “Yeah, I know it’s actually six… five, sorry.” Draco’s tone is laced with sombre regret.

“The thing is, Granger – Potter had the two people in the world he loved the most _with_ him, through that whole terrible time. And Weasley knew his family were all supporting and protecting one another. You didn’t have that tenuous security. It’s a whole different Quidditch match, if you think about it.”

Hermione replies in a small voice, “You didn’t have that either, Malfoy. You were the only one keeping the big bad wolf from your parents’ door.”

“Hardly. The wolf was sitting at the head of the table by that stage… I was useless,” Draco states colourlessly.

Predictably, Hermione opens her mouth to argue the point. Draco stymies the rebuttal by pulling her onto his lap and pressing his lips to hers in a close-mouthed, soft-as-silk kiss. The sensation of her plump little mouth against his instantly calms his overstrung emotions. He slides his big hand from her hip to the base of her neck, minute callouses on his palm catching on the whorled pattern of her oversized pink jumper.

While this kiss is as inescapably arousing as every other smooch they’ve shared, Draco recognizes that their embrace is directed and perfused by their mutual need to comfort each other… to mark their acknowledgment of the suffering of the other. He keeps his lips sealed as they lightly slant across Hermione’s; little brushes that overlap as he moves from the central curve to the outer corners ( _what_ _was that term she’d used on her couch? Oral commissures?_ ). Her pleasurable sighs as she mimics his motions make Draco’s heart miss a beat here and there. Hermione grooms the argent hair at the back of his head as he cups her nape, fingertips barely rubbing her sensitive skin above the pullover’s thick cockled collar.

An aggressive bang on the ajar bedroom door startles them both. Reluctantly, Draco disengages his mouth from Hermione’s; she moves as if to squirm off his lap, but he is having none of it.

Clasping her shapely hip again, Draco glares at the cause of the ill-timed interruption.

“What are you about now, P.T. Barnum?” he jeers at his interfering house elf.

Macdolas ignores him altogether as he simpers, “Does Grace Lady Granger wish Macdolas to include Master Malfoy in the preparations for dinner?”. His pointy nose elevates a degree or three as Draco huffs.

Stifling a giggle, Hermione puts a finger to Draco’s thinned lips.

“Yes please, Mac. What are we having?” Hermione warmly asks.

The mini major-domo practically prances at her convivial enquiry. His Lilliputian chest swells as he informs them, “Filet mignon with mushroom sauce, jacket potatoes, and grilled asparagus, Grace Lady Granger. Macdolas asks if Your Eminence desires her steak to be prepared medium-rare?”

Macdolas anxiously awaits confirmation, knotting his hands together as he beams adoringly at Hermione.

“Lovely – and how long do we have until it’s ready, do you think?” Hermione ignores Draco’s grunt of disapproval as she wriggles off his lap to stand by the bed.

“Macdolas estimates no more than half an hour, Grace Lady Granger.” Macdolas bows and darts out the door.

“Notice he didn’t bother to ask me how I like my steak?” Draco grumbles. “Bumptious little cock-blocker.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione folds in her lips, trying and failing to suppress her chuckles at his grouchy insult.

“What? You heard him – he’s gone from ‘ooh Master brings great glory to the House of Malfoy’ to ‘keep the door open while you’re visiting with my daughter’ damned quickly!”. Draco’s arms snake around Hermione’s midriff as he moves to stand behind her lithe, giggling form. He rests his chin on her right shoulder, dropping a light kiss on her exposed lateral throat.

“How Macdolas manages to appear forbidding whilst wearing those outré vestments is beyond me,” he remarks. “He looks like a giant daffodil vomited on him tonight, for Salazar’s sake.”

“Stop it! Mac is a darling, and he means well,” Hermione unsurprisingly defends her diminutive fae champion. Her hands shyly cover Draco’s as they lightly rest on the mid-point of her tummy.

She surveys the wreckage of her wardrobe with a rueful sigh. “What am I to do with this jumbled mess?”.

“Burn it and start over?” Draco laughs at Hermione’s indignant gasp. “Here, I’ll help. I’ll move to the other side and hold up each item for your inspection – you can then advise whether it goes in the ‘keep’, ‘donate’ or ‘incinerate’ piles.”

“Thanks,” Hermione’s mouth sarcastically twists a little as she sweeps and pushes the wild heap until she’s cleared space for three piles in the middle.

“Excellent. We’ll have this sorted by dinner, Granger.” Draco absentmindedly kisses her little ear before he walks around the sleigh bed.

Their cooperative progression through the sorting process runs smoothly and swiftly, until Draco notices Hermione inspecting an old Hogwarts school uniform set. She folds and places it in the ‘donate’ section.

“Wait – what’s that?” His shark-grey eyes gleam as they home in on the matching outfit.

Hermione shrugs. “Just an old Gryffindor school uniform – I’ll give it to Hagrid next time I visit. He might know of a financially-disadvantaged student who needs another set.”

“Which year did you wear it?” Draco presses, eyeing the nickel-coloured knife-pleated skirt, woollen pullover and plain white shirt with poorly-disguised acquisitiveness. He unconsciously licks his lips.

“Oh, I don’t know – Fifth, Sixth Years, maybe? Why the sudden fascination, Malfoy? A short while ago you claimed ‘Lion’ clothing burned your tender skin…” Hermione’s brow furrows as she cocks her head to the side.

“Does it include the red and yellow tie? And the long socks?” Draco is already grabbing for the items.

“Yes – what, do you want the Mary Janes, too?” Hermione mocks. “They won’t fit, I can tell you that for free.”

Securing his purloined bounty atop the nearest pillow, Draco smiles at her: slowly, broadly, and rapaciously.

“They won’t fit _me_ , Granger,” he expounds. “Rest assured I have other plans for them… in which you play a starring role, _ma petite_.”

He delights in the heated wave of sudden comprehension that floods Hermione’s beautiful face. Her mouth opens and closes multiple times before emitting a squeaky, “Oh.” She concentrates on precisely folding a summer-weight dress as the blush flows to her hairline.

Draco takes pity on her and changes the subject. “Would you mind if I stuck around for a while after dinner, Granger?”.

It is his turn to pinken as he tentatively mentions, “Perhaps we could watch some more of that _Pride and Prejudice_ thing from last night? It’s rather diverting.”

Hermione’s eyes brighten as she eagerly nods her assent. “Of course! Where did we get to – I’m afraid I fell asleep quite early in the piece.”

“Darcy caught his first glimpse of Elizabeth at the Assembly Rooms Ball,” Draco replies. He holds up another work blouse as he quotes, “’She’s tolerable I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.'”

“You’ve – you’ve read _Pride and Prejudice_? _And_ you remember the iconic lines?” Hermione stares at Draco as though he’s just Transfigured into a silver unicorn.

“Why does my erudition never fail to surprise you, Granger? I _was_ your closest academic rival at Hogwarts, remember.” Draco shakes his head in mock self-pity. “It’s my dazzling good looks, isn’t it? You simply cannot credit that I represent the pinnacle of masculine perfection.’

“Well. Being this accomplished… it’s a burden, I tell you true – but I valiantly soldier on.” He winks mischievously as Hermione throws yet another garment at him.

She rejoins with another line from Austen’s classic: ‘“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”’

Draco finishes the interaction. ‘“I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”’

Their hands still at their busywork as they gaze delightedly at one another across the expanse of bed separating them.

 _Merlin – she’s so beautiful._ Draco is in awe of the pure, incandescent wonder of Hermione Granger’s smiling face.

 _Remember that this is all temporary, boy – she’s not meant for the likes of you._ His inner realist helpfully reminds him of that unpalatable, inexorable truth.

Draco returns his attention to folding Hermione’s skirts, willing his hands to stop shaking.

This time, he’s thankful when Macdolas bustles into the room.

“Dinner is served, Grace Lady Granger!” he proudly announces. “And for Master Malfoy,” Macdolas adds as a snubbing afterthought.

Recklessly tossing the last small pile of Hermione’s un-sorted apparel into the ‘keep’ heap, Draco moves to escort Hermione to her little kitchen.

And if Draco casually bumps Macdolas out of his way as they enter the hallway…

_Well, accidents do happen, don’t they?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted excerpts are from Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.
> 
> French translation:  
> Ma précieuse femme – My precious girl.


	24. Largesse

__

_Friday 07 March 2003: AM_

“Mmmphff – Wait, where are you going?” Hermione’s tweed-clad bum bumps into the side-arm of the Chesterfield as Draco suddenly breaks off their swiftly-intensifying goodbye kiss in her lounge room. She watches in bemusement (and aggravation) as he charges toward the short hallway. Malfoy doesn’t break stride, turning his head to explain, “I’ll be right back, Granger – almost forgot something!”.

 _Yeah – properly finishing that sublime kiss_ , Hermione thinks crossly. No matter – her quick check of the clock shows she still has a solid forty-five minutes before she’s due at the office. Plenty of time to flip the script on Mr Kissy-Stoppy. She grins as she hears his familiar footsteps returning, careful to transform her little smirk into an expression of innocent anticipation as Draco rounds the corner. He carries two burgundy-wrapped parcels in his hands.

“What’s this?” Hermione had noticed the packages stashed beneath Draco’s side of the bed last night, idly assuming they were his clothes for this morning. Malfoy’s finely-chiselled features are impassive as he places the items on the high back corner of the velvety red couch.

“Upgrades,” he tells her succinctly. And uninformatively. _Upgrades?_ Hermione’s innate curiosity takes over as she eagerly unknots the black silk ribbon – no sticky tape for rich wizards – and pulls apart the wrapping on the first bundle. Her questing fingers move of their own accord to lovingly explore the glossy, dark fuchsia material nestled inside.

“Here – I’ll hold it up so you can better see it –“ the shimmering super-fine fabric glissades through Hermione’s grabby hands as Draco steps forward to demonstrate the garment in full. He hoists it high enough to block his head from view.

“I think it’s the right size – if not, it shouldn’t take more than a day or two to fix – anyway, if you don’t care for it, there are plenty of other cuts and colours available –“ Draco prattles in an odd monotone as Hermione finally recovers the power of speech.

“Malfoy – stop. Please. I need time to appreciate the full majesty of this work of art.” Hermione is indeed awestruck.

The kimono is utterly, unbelievably exquisite. It doesn’t scream ‘crème de la crème’; it murmurs it in a cut-glass undertone as it ushers you into the parlour for high tea. And judges your table etiquette with one perfectly-plucked, arched eyebrow.

Deep fuchsia from neck to knee – excepting the delicate black lace sleeve inserts running from collar to wide-sleeved wrists – the silk looks (and feels) like the finest quality Hermione has ever seen. She gasps as Draco slowly turns the robe to display the back; beneath the shoulders, a stylized pair of embroidered otters gambol in a saucer-sized circle. One is black and the other gold. The pattern includes tiny water droplets and flowers.

 _This has been custom-made… at great expense, and with careful forethought… for me. **Me**. How does Malfoy even know my corporeal Patronus is an Otter?_ Hermione is beyond flustered. Edging into a thrilled daze, actually. A jarring thought hits her; she vocalizes it before she can apply any filters.

“Malfoy – is this what you usually do? Bestow expensive gifts upon your… sexual partners?” _Oh no – is this a placatory ‘kiss-off’ gift?_ Joy rapidly shifts to dread.

Draco lowers the magnificent wrapper; his eyes have darkened to the hue of wet pebbles. He answers slowly. “I do not. Most of my sexual… encounters are brief and – “ he bites off the end of the sentence. “I’ll return the robe.”

He turns to fold it back into the burgundy paper, his arms and hands moving stiffly.

_I’m such an imbecile – I’ve unintentionally insulted him… and he’s revoking my gift…_

“No! Please, give it back!” Hermione cries, grasping at the beautiful dressing gown. “I love it!” She makes a wild lunge for it as Draco attempts to stuff it roughly into the paper. They grapple briefly for possession.

“Stop it – you’ll rip it, it’s mine now –“

“No – I heard what you said, I’m taking it back – “

“GIVE IT TO ME!” Hermione growls like a Bengal tiger, shocking Draco into releasing the robe. He retreats a few steps, holding out his hands in exaggerated surrender. The disappointment that earlier tightened his expression has disappeared, replaced by dry amusement.

“Steady now, Granger… the kimono is yours… “ Malfoy speaks in a soothing undertone.

Hermione bares her teeth, merriment uptilting her eyes. She pretends to ferally snarl, “ _Mine_ …”

He laughs. “Yes, yes… Do I take it that you… like it?” Draco busies himself with neatly refolding the paper, eyes directed downward.

Her breath hitches. Hermione walks forward hesitantly, stopping a few inches away from the reserved, generous blond.

“Malfoy… this is by far the loveliest, most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. I adore it. Thank you.” She leans in to shyly kiss his cheek. Draco turns and captures her rosy lips instead; he breaks contact to press his forehead against hers.

“I’m glad. That abysmal pink thing I wore the other day is a wash or two away from disintegration,” he jokes. “Figured you could use a replacement.”

Hermione nods at the unopened package teetering on the sofa. “Did you buy a back-up for the replacement, too?”

Draco runs his tongue across his teeth. “Not exactly. Promise not to freak out again, OK? Besides… ‘Have you no consideration for my poor nerves?’”.

 _Holy Regency Romance – Malfoy just quoted_ Pride and Prejudice _! Again! …And a lesser character, at that!_

Hermione rests the kimono atop the couch before quickly yanking up Draco’s cream sweater and matching t-shirt to gently poke her right thumb into the shallow indent of his navel.

Yelping in surprise, he captures her digit and holds it at bay. “Hey! Why did you do that!?!”.

“Just checking for a belly-button,” Hermione deadpans. “You can’t possibly be wholly human.”

Her keenness to discover the contents of the second gift results in her missing Draco’s embarrassed light flush. Hermione is already twisting her fingers beneath the jet ribbon, impatience making her clumsy. Finally, the bow unties.

Wide-eyed, Hermione reaches for the ballet slipper-pink raiment. She carefully holds it against herself, marvelling at the texture of the… wool? It falls from neck to ankle, soft as butter.

“Malfoy, what is this material? I’ve never seen the like,” Hermione admits. The fabric is somehow silk-smooth and wool-warm.

“It’s vicuña wool, from Peru’s Central Andes region. Look, it’s warm, that’s the main thing. I thought you could use this one in winter, and the silk kimono in the warmer months,” Draco thrusts his hands in his pockets and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving for work soon? I’ll call Macdolas to put away the robes.”

“Wait – I haven’t finished drooling over my new pretties,” Hermione warns. “And I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course you do,” Draco huffs, rolling his eyes at the plain cream ceiling. “Can’t it wait?”.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione is unyielding. “So the robes are made of vicuña wool, and…”

“Mulberry silk.” He stares at the toes of his polished brown leather boots with apparent fascination.

“Mulberry silk,” Hermione echoes. “Of course. The most refined, expensive silk in the world, correct?”.

“Maybe. I picked it for the colour – don’t make too much of it.” Draco looks as though he’d rather be pooper-scooper-ing Hippogriff dung right now. Hermione folds in a smile.

“Uh-huh. The colour. So how do you explain the… Belgian lace sleeve inserts?” Hermione reads off the kimono’s discreet care information label as Draco squirms some more.

“Came with the design.”

“What about the customized embroidery on the back? The otters? How do you know my Patronus is an otter?” Hermione is enjoying her impromptu inquisition. Mostly because Draco is wriggling like a captive eel with every pitiful attempt at deflection.

“A whim. Potter mentioned it.”

“Hang on – what’s this?” Her clear voice rises as she spies fine silver script stitched along the breast pocket of the vicuña dressing gown.

“ _’Grace Lady Granger’_ …” A reluctant laugh bursts from Hermione’s lips. “Malfoy - you sly, saucy, smart-alec!”

Draco guffaws, pleased as punch with his little joke. “It was Macdolas’s idea.”

“What rubbish! Trying to blame Mac!”

Hearing his name, the little elf rushes into the lounge. “Grace Lady Granger calls Macdolas?”

“Yes – put these away in Her Grace’s wardrobe, Macdolas.” Draco points peremptorily to the new apparel.

Hermione shoots Malfoy an admonishing glance, unimpressed by his curtness.

“Please.” Draco bites out. He trades po-faced glances with Macdolas, before the majordomo neatly collects the robes and drops into a bow before Hermione.

“Macdolas is honoured to be of service to Grace Lady Granger,” he states worshipfully.

Draco can’t resist baiting his manservant before he departs on his errand. “Nice smoking jacket, Macdolas. Where are you sourcing these flamboyant ‘uniforms’, hmm? Did a children’s costume shop go into receivership?”.

Macdolas’s offended gasp is matched by Hermione’s ireful exclamation.

“Malfoy! You’re being unkind – is this the less pleasant ‘Lord of the Manor’ side of your personality? If so, I’d rather you left it in your mouldering ancestral pile, thank you.” Hermione lays a comforting hand on Macdolas’s angry little shoulder. He is quivering beneath his elaborately decorated ultramarine quilted smoking jacket; the appliquéd golden moon-and-stars pattern shifts with his slight movements.

“I like your outfits, Mac – they express your personality, and always make me feel cheerier when I see what you’ve crafted to wear for the day. Draco’s merely envious of your creative abilities,” she coos.

Macdolas turns up his puzzled pear-green peepers to answer, “But does not Grace Lady Granger know that Master Malfoy is a professional – “

“Macdolas! May I remind you of the conversation we had before I brought you to work for Hermione?” Draco hurriedly buts in.

“Don’t shout at him, Malfoy! You steered the conversation in this direction,” Hermione rebukes the sulking blond.

“Sorry,” Draco mutters insincerely. He looks up from beneath his flaxen fringe, puffing it awry in sulky exasperation.

“Master Malfoy is correct to scold Macdolas for not holding his tongue,” Macdolas surprisingly accepts, hanging his head bashfully. Hermione kneels to scoop her little friend into a quick hug.

“You’re a dear, Mac. Don’t let Draco needle you, he’s quite the stirrer today.”

Pulling away, Hermione thinks she catches a glimpse of Macdolas’s pointy little tongue retracting into his mouth – did he just poke it out at Draco behind her back? She turns her head… Draco looks fit to kill. Most likely, then. She pretends she didn’t witness the silent provocation.

Macdolas skips out of the room, pausing to fire a final glare at Malfoy that is returned with vim. Hermione allows herself a chortle once she’s certain her elvish guard dog is out of sight.

Draco is unimpressed. “You’re encouraging him in his defiance, Granger! He brazenly manipulated you into that sickeningly schmaltzy hug – and then stuck out his bloody tongue at me! I know you saw him.”

Hermione shakes her head pityingly. “Malfoy, is it really my fault you have trouble exercising authority over your staff? What use is your expensive Pureblood education if you haven’t mastered the art of throwing about your hoity-toity weight?” she teases, relieved when he grins in spite of himself.

“ _’Hoity-toity’_ , hmm? Is that any way to describe your wardrobe sponsor?” Draco stalks forward, waggling his fingers predatorily as a giggling Hermione backs away.

“Don’t – tickling isn’t fair, c’mon, there’s no need for – “ Hermione squeals as Draco effortlessly swings her into his arms and flumps them onto the Chesterfield. He laughs with her as his wicked fingers lightly tease her ribcage and armpits beneath her brown tweed jacket. She kicks her legs helplessly, trapped in his spread lap.

“No, stop, stop – I can’t breathe –“ Hermione gasps between fits of giggles. Draco immediately ceases his titillating touches, easing her into a back-to-front gentle hug as her wheezing subsides.

“Are you OK, _ma petite_?” he asks softly, circling his arms around her midriff.

Hermione hastens to reassure him. “I’m fine. You’re a lot of fun, Draco Lucius Malfoy.” His full name leaves her lips before she can abbreviate it to their usual appellation. _And there’s a sentence I never dreamed I’d ever utter, her shocked mind supplies._

Draco promptly responds, “As are you, Hermione Jean Granger.” His strapping arms tighten infinitesimally around her waist.

Casting about to cover her flurried nerves, Hermione seizes on a safer topic.

“Malfoy – would you care to explain how and why my fridge and pantry are mysteriously stocked with fresh, top-of-the-line groceries every day? And why Mac refuses to explain their provenance?” she presses.

“Well, he’s a resourceful little gremlin, isn’t he? Only the best for Grace Lady Granger, I believe.” Hermione can hear the smile behind his reply, though she can’t see it. She shakes her head, determined not to allow him to cleverly deflect the issue this time. She chooses her words with care; the memory of his injured reaction to her thoughtless query about the kimono is foremost in her mind.

“I must insist on recompensing you for the food, Malfoy. I appreciate your generosity – but you’ve already given me so much… I’m not merely talking about material goods, either.” Hermione manages to crook her head up and around enough to catch his steady heather gaze with her earnest nutmeg eyes.

“No.” His reply is uncompromising.

“But –“

“Granger, what is the use of being filthy rich if I can’t splash it about?” Draco drolly observes. “I have more Galleons than I could conceivably spend in five lifetimes. Allow me to gift you a few sausages and the odd trinket, please.”

 _‘A few sausages and the odd trinket’? That’s like calling the Hope Diamond a blue stone._ Hermione stifles her qualms as Malfoy continues.

“Besides…” – he chuckles – “…it pleases me greatly to ensure my monthly expenditure doesn’t escape my father’s disparaging notice.”

The confession startles Hermione; she twists properly to sit side-saddle, Draco’s right arm bracing her back. “You need your father’s approval on your budget?” she asks apprehensively.

“No, Granger – the opposite. The Malfoy fortune, land, and titles were formally and irrevocably passed to me as a condition of Lucius’s sentencing. Hence why I wear the signet ring.“ He holds up his right hand before shrugging carelessly.

“I send Lucius the Gringotts’ statements to get his goat… petty, I know. But rather satisfying.”

“Good.” Hermione’s satisfied sanction surprises him. “He’s brought his opprobrium on himself.”

“Indeed. So, no more questions on that score, please. You’re doing me the favour – usually I struggle to spend my coin on anything other than –“ he grinds to a halt.

“Never mind.” Draco cleverly stays Hermione’s spirited questions by kissing them from her parted lips.

 _I’m such a sucker for Malfoy’s smooth smooches._ She struggles to conjure much self-reproach as Draco licks darting forays across and inside her willing mouth. Their enthusiastic canoodling is interrupted by the sound of the Floo activating; it takes them a few moments to register the disturbance.

“Hermione? And… Draco? Hullo!” The high, clear, untroubled feminine voice is accompanied by an angry catty screech. “It’s alright, Crooky – we’re here. Once I’ve checked for Blibbering Humdingers, I’ll let you out.”

Head whipping toward the fireplace in surprise, Hermione’s high mahogany ponytail accidentally thwacks Draco in the face. “Oof!”

“Sorry, sorry! Malfoy – let me up please,” Hermione struggles to remove herself from Draco’s lap with dignity or grace. Only his steadying hand grabbing the back of her jacket saves her from a nasty face-plant into the coffee table. Hermione gives him a grateful glance as she stumbles toward her old schoolmate.

“Luna – hello! I didn’t know you were dropping by this morning?”. She engulfs the ethereal blonde in a warm hug, mindful of the enraged half-Kneazle in the large cat carrier swinging from Luna’s left hand. “And Crooky, too!”.

The big marmalade tomcat prods an angry talon out of the cross-hatched front door of his prison; Hermione narrowly avoids the slash. Luna sets down the cat carrier on the floor rug, blithely ignoring the violent rocking from side-to-side as Crookshanks tests the structural fortitude of the receptacle.

“He’s not a good traveller,” Luna redundantly comments. She extracts her wand from the pocket of her bright purple robes, closing her eyes in deep concentration. Turning slowly, she recites an incantation Hermione has never before heard.

Apparently satisfied that no Blibbering Humdingers are lurking in the flat’s little living room, Luna opens her crystal blue eyes and curves her lips into her unique, guileless smile. “All clear.”

Kneeling to undo Crookshanks’s cage, Luna pauses for a moment. “So, Draco… I guess you’ve finally told Hermione about your long-time cr – “

“Let me help you with that, Luna!” Draco nearly bowls over Hermione as he rushes to the little Ravenclaw’s side. “Mind the claws – and the fangs.” Crookshanks senses freedom is imminent and is snapping his jaws.

Hermione forgets to quiz Luna about her interrupted statement when she witnesses Luna affectionately squeezing a crouching Draco into a loose sideways hug… which Draco awkwardly returns.

 _There’s a Blibbering Humdinger if ever I saw one_ , she opines faintly.

“You two are… friends?” Hermione eventually twitters uncertainly. Luna nods serenely; Draco looks apprehensive.

“Yes… Draco was very good to Mr Ollivander and me, during our stay in the dungeons,” Luna offers up the allusion to her kidnapping, imprisonment and torture as though she were describing a summer holiday at the beach. She ignores Draco’s immediate protestation.

“Draco smuggled us extra food, and blankets at night; he returned early in the mornings to transfigure them back into rags, so we wouldn’t be punished. And kept us company, when he wasn’t needed upstairs.” The blonde witch calmly adds, “We learned a lot about each other, I think.”

Malfoy makes a strangled noise in his throat that could be alarm or denial. He loudly interjects, “Granger – is it alright if I liberate this giant orange bathmat now? Does he bite?”

“Not often. But I wouldn’t call him names if I were you, Malfoy – he’s extremely intelligent. And holds a wicked grudge,” Hermione warns.

“You still call each other by your surnames… so cute,” Luna dreamily observes. “How long have the pair of you been – “

Her enquiry is drowned out by Crookshanks’s wild yowl as Draco flips the final clip on the cat carrier and swings the front door open, retreating back a few circumspect steps as he does so. The fluffy ginger feline catapults across the floor like a henna rocket, unfortunately colliding with Macdolas as the little house elf trots through the open doorway. Fur and terrified shrieks fly as the furious cat’s extended claws find purchase on the back of Macdolas’s quilted blue smoking jacket. Macdolas reacts to his sudden moggie-jockey by galloping between the trio of humans grouped by the hearth and around the couch, screaming like a banshee in accompaniment to Crookshanks’s incensed caterwauls.

Aghast, Hermione realizes that Draco is adding his rowdy, helpless laughter to the cacophony in her lounge room. He is bent double, resting his hands on his jeans-shod knees for support as he guffaws unreservedly at the bizarre spectacle unspooling before them.

 _The gleeful prat is actually crying from laughing so hard_. If she weren’t worried about Mac, Hermione would have been tempted to join in with his infectious hilarity. Luna’s wide Arctic blue eyes have widened, but her placid composure is otherwise undisturbed.

“Don’t just stand there cackling like a hyena, Malfoy – do something!” Hermione shouts above the din. She pulls her vine wood wand from the deep side pocket of her tweed skirt, as it is increasingly plain that Draco is incapable of doing anything beyond sputtering deep belly laughs.

He does manage to snort, “What – should I start taking bets? My Galleons are on the furry bathmat!”

“Oh, you’re a laugh riot today, aren’t you? Forget I asked, I’ll sort this myself,” Hermione mutters disgustedly. “Luna, please be ready to grab Crooky – I’ll take Macdolas.” Luna nods unquestioningly.

Taking careful aim, Hermione intones, “ _Altum_ _Somnum!_ ”. The Bewitched Sleep Charm works perfectly. Hermione clutches Macdolas by the side of his collar as his bugged-out eyes roll back in his head, while Luna gently plucks a floppy Crookshanks from the newly-perforated smoking jacket. Carefully, Hermione slides an unconscious Mac onto the Chesterfield, slipping a plump cushion beneath his head. Luna begins to place Crookshanks at the other end, thinks better of it, and lays the big feline down on the rug, beside the coffee table.

The two witches share a smile of satisfaction and relief; they turn to note that Draco has backed up to and slid down the wall beside the fireplace. His long legs are sprawled akimbo and an occasional giggle still leaks from his mouth, like a slowly-deflating balloon.

Sensing their stares, Draco looks up, arranging his features into an expression of artless innocence. Hermione sternly crosses her arms and purses her mouth.

Draco croaks, “I’m sorry, ladies. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t help – did you see what just happened here?” He swabs at his laughter-damp eyes with a handkerchief. “Granger – your… cat? Kneazle? Kneazlecat?... _just rode my house elf_. I just… I can’t… “ he dissolves into another bout of giggles.

“Malfoy, I swear to Merlin that I will Petrify you if you can’t get yourself under control,” Hermione threatens. “I don’t have time for this.”

She checks the clock. _Damn – I really don’t have time for this_. She has a little over five minutes before she’s due to start work.

“Luna, are you staying here in the flat while I go to work? Or would you like to come with me? I’ll have to wake Mac and Crooky before we leave, though.”

“Oh, that’s alright, Hermione. I’m attending an International Magical Creatures seminar at the Ministry this afternoon. I thought I could spend the morning in the MOM library and perhaps have lunch with you before then?” Luna explains in her languid voice. “I brought Crooky along because he’s been shredding Hagrid’s clothes when he’s left alone during the day… Hagrid thought he might like to see you for a little while.”

“Crooky’s been acting out? Oh, I’m sorry, Luna – I should come visit more often. I’d bring him back here to live permanently… but I’m out most of the day, and he ran away back to Hogwarts when I first tried it…” Hermione trails off, unhappy guilt turning down the corners of her mouth.

Luna shrugs. “It’s nothing serious, Hermione. But a trip’s as good as a séance, isn’t that what they say?”.

“Exactly,” Draco chips in. “Granger, I can stay here until Mac-Dumb-Arse and the Tangerine Terror come around, if you like.” He leans his chamomile-blond head back against the wall again, grinning evilly. “I’ve an inkling that my seditious little steward might be ailurophobic – best if I’m here to ensure his workplace health and safety, yeah?”.

Although she is impressed that Malfoy knows the term for a phobia of cats, Hermione is loath to take his offer at face value. “Do you promise not to tease either of them? You’ve been butting heads with poor Mac constantly of late… and please don’t call him that mean name again. ”

“I swear on Salazar’s grave – I shan’t be anything other than the epitome of benevolence, _ma_ _petite_.” Draco clambers to his feet, seemingly oblivious to his public endearment. “Besides – with you gone, Macdolas and I won’t have anyone to bicker over, hmm?” He smiles candidly at Hermione; his unguardedly beautiful face makes her feel… peculiar. She gives herself a mental shake.

_Quit dithering and get moving, woman._

“Well – if you’re certain it’s not an imposition – thank you, Malfoy. There’s an old litter tray and clumping clay in one of the laundry cupboards, should Crooky need it… and some tins of tuna in the back of the pantry… Oh, and please don’t let him out of the flat – “

“Relax, Granger. I have this covered.” Draco pads closer, until he is only a foot away. He bends his head as though to kiss her, but hesitates. “You’d best depart, lest you wish to berate yourself all day for a minute’s tardiness.”

 _Drat the man – he knows me too well_. Hermione doesn’t stop to consider the implications of that unsettling observation.

“Thank you. If you have any problems – “

Draco shakes his head in exasperated amusement. “Go – the wizarding world needs you!” He firmly guides her to the fireplace; Luna is already waiting patiently inside the chimney. Her calm tiffany-blue eyes reflect her contented smile as she watches their little pettifoggery.

Just before Hermione ducks her head to join Luna, Draco catches her hand in his. “Granger – one last thing… Would you care to accompany me to the ballet tomorrow evening? Mother has a couple of tickets she doesn’t wish to use.” He shrugs dispassionately.

“It’s modern ballet, doesn’t go forever. And the seats are guaranteed front row – Mother won’t sit anywhere else. I thought perhaps you’d enjoy it. Seems a shame to let them go to waste… but of course, if you’d rather not –“

He attempts to slide his big pale hand away; Hermione isn’t having it. She wraps her other hand around their laced fingers. That familiar tic in Draco’s jaw jumps at her gesture.

“I’d like that. Very much. What time?” Hermione warmly accepts the unanticipated invitation.

“Oh. Good. The performance begins at half seven; we could dine beforehand? If you Floo to the townhouse by five, it allows plenty of time for both.” He glides his free hand to her left hip.

“Excellent. It’s a ‘not-date’ then!” Hermione grins at her little joke; Draco frowns and coughs out a laugh.

“Right.”

Hermione runs with her impulse to reach up and plant a quick kiss on Draco’s unsmiling, sensual mouth. He returns her osculation with zeal, before he steps back, eyes aglitter.

Mutely, she turns and stoops under the mantle, joining Luna as they disperse the magical green powder and announce their destination.

Once they’ve doddered out of one of the Ministry’s Floo fireplaces, Luna tucks her hand through Hermione’s elbow. “How long have you been dating Draco, Hermione?” she asks in her customary quixotic tone.

Hermione vigorously shakes her head. “We’re not ‘dating’, Luna – it’s more like a – a friendly, mutually beneficial arrangement…”

Luna nods sagely. “I see. So, friends who f– “

“Luna!” Hermione hisses, scandalized. They are currently surrounded by a horde of other Ministry workers and visitors, all headed for the bank of elevators.

“– fornicate,” Luna finishes her sentence, blinking owlishly at Hermione’s gobsmacked aspect. “That’s the correct terminology, isn’t it?”

The two young witches momentarily stop in their tracks, ignoring the grumbles of other pedestrians as they block the thoroughfare.

In unison, the friends burst into spontaneous, unconstrained laughter.

Hermione clutches Luna in an affectionate hug. “Merlin, it’s good to see you, Luna! And we have so much catching-up to do… why did you never mention your friendship with Draco before?”.

“He asked me not to,” Luna reveals. “He’s a very private person, Hermione. And rather lonely, I think.”

 _Malfoy’s such a silly, misguided goose of a man sometimes!_ Hermione fumes.

She steers them in the direction of the lifts once more.

“Not any more, Luna – not if I have anything to say about it,” Hermione determinedly declares.

 _And this isn’t me being soft-hearted… Draco is my… friend_ , Hermione uneasily assures her carping internal monologue.

_It’s only natural to care about the welfare of your friends… right?_

_Riiiight_ , answers that bitchy little voice.

 _Oh, just shut up already_ , Hermione feebly retorts.

She presses the button for Level Two and exchanges a sunny smile with her blonde _amiga_.

“Luna, tell me – what do you know about vicuña sheep?”.


	25. Divulgence

__

_Friday 07 March 2003: AM_

“Nice kitty… soft kitty… off you go… “ Draco gingerly tries to shift the giant apricot beast off his lap, but reconsiders the move as Crookshanks opens his wasp-yellow eyes to slits and peers balefully at him. The Kneazlecat leisurely extends his claws, settling them dangerously close to Draco’s vulnerable stomach. Crookshanks proceeds to knead at him with his massive tufted front paws, emitting a rumbling purr that can probably be detected from the next street over. His eerie eyes stay fixed on the unnerved blond’s face.

 _Thank Clotho for thick woollen sweaters_. Even with the protective rolls of knitted fabric, Draco admits that he might be outmatched – for the moment. _I didn’t invite this orange brute to use me as a pincushion_ , he ponders peevishly. _And he’s shedding coarse carroty hairs all over my clothing!_

Without breaking eye contact with the fiendish feline, Draco turns his head infinitesimally to the right; his peripheral vision detects minute flutterings from the picayune elf beside him. Macdolas snuffles, lazily rubbing his cheek against the cushion Hermione had thoughtfully propped beneath his sleeping head.

“Listen, Macdolas… don’t make any sudden moves, mate. You’re alright, but the big cat that jumped on your back is sitting on my legs,” Draco warns his steward in a low murmur.

Macdolas’s lime green orbs crack open in alarm. Remaining motionless, he incredulously asks, “Master Malfoy has willingly placed the tiger cat on his person?”.

Draco daren’t laugh, lest the ‘tiger cat’ sinks his talons deeper. “He’s just a half-Kneazle, Macdolas. And no – Crookshanks jumped on me when I sat down to check on you.”

Macdolas cranes his neck. He lets out a terrified whimper as Crooky swivels his head to stare at the little elf.

“Hey, don’t fret – he won’t hurt you.” _Probably. Maybe. How the blazes did Granger come to choose such a monster for a pet?_ Both males flinch as Crookshanks opens his fanged mouth in a grotesquely wide yawn.

“No sudden movements, alright? Might be best if we wait for him to… get down of his own accord,” Draco decides aloud. _Best for my vulnerable belly and genitals, also. Surely the marmalade wildcat needs to move, in order to regularly terrorize a mouse? Or a small child?_

Slowly, Draco reaches out with his right hand to assist Macdolas in sitting upright and wedging his scrawny frame into the corner of the sofa. The elf is quivering with trepidation as Crookshanks increases the pace of his pummelling and the volume of his purrs.

“Don’t let him smell your fear, Macdolas. He’s really a tame grimalkin,” Draco states firmly.

Macdolas looks unconvinced. “Macdolas asks Master Malfoy how the beastie enters Grace Lady Granger’s abode?”. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Crookshanks since he awoke. The abject dread on his pointy face sparks pity.

He’s been a pugnacious twerp recently – but Draco does have a soft spot for the tiny termagant. “Would you believe that Crookshanks is Hermione’s beloved pet, Macdolas?”

“Pet?” the manservant incredulously peeps.

Draco grins. “I know, right? But it’s true. And you must trust that Hermione and I would never let any harm befall you.”

“But Master Malfoy is cross with Macdolas… Master tells Macdolas his attire is ridiculous,” Macdolas uncertainly points out.

It is Draco’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I apologize for that. I was out of line. Perhaps we could call a truce? We both want to ensure Hermione’s safety, hmm?” Draco presses.

Nodding vigorously, Macdolas adds, “Grace Lady Granger is an angel, Master Malfoy! Macdolas would gladly lay down his life to protect her!”. His bulging green eyes attest to the sincerity of his claim. His unquestionable devotion strikes a poignant chord.

“It won’t come to that, Macdolas. But I do appreciate your commitment. Thank you,” Draco acknowledges solemnly.

“Master Malfoy confers great honour to Macdolas by entrusting him with Grace Lady Granger’s protection,” Macdolas humbly proclaims. “Macdolas is willing to tolerate the cacodemon… but is Master certain that it won’t steal Macdolas’s breath?”.

“Absolutely, Macdolas. That’s just an old wizard’s tale. Crookshanks won’t harm you, I promise.” _I hope_. Both males hold their breath as Crookshanks stretches out and up in the classic ‘hunchback’ feline pose; he uses Draco’s legs to springboard off his lap before prowling toward Macdolas.

Macdolas emits a soft, “Eep!” as the mega cat places his furry head underneath Macdolas’s bony, quivery hand… and proceeds to self-scratch his noggin on the house elf’s tension-splayed fingers. Draco exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“See? He likes you! Go on – rub between his ears, he’ll enjoy that,” Draco encourages. He stifles a smile as Macdolas barely touches the short fur on Crookshanks’s head; the clementine-coloured feline blissfully closes his eyes and nudges closer. The nervy sprite visibly relaxes and dares to increase the pressure, his little mouth tipping upwards. He darts a glance at Draco.

“Macdolas wonders at how soft is the Crookshanks’s fur…”

“Uh-huh… And look at him, he’s just a big ole house puss.” The moggie slightly curls back his lips over his sharp fangs. Draco retracts the hand that had been tentatively stretching to test the texture of the Kneazlecat’s crested ears. He suspects Hermione’s warning about the animal’s intelligence is bang on the money.

Draco gets up, swiping his hands in a futile attempt to rid his dark jeans and cream cable-knit of orange fuzz. “Let’s hunt out the kitty litter and some tuna for your new friend, Macdolas. Once we’ve gotten Crookshanks settled, how about you accompany me to the Manor for a brief visit? I need to ask a favour of my mother before dinner tonight.”

Macdolas nods eagerly. “Very good, Master Malfoy! Macdolas yearns for a glimpse of his beloved Ruibby!”. He scrambles off the couch. Crookshanks slinks at his heels as the odd triumvirate walk toward the laundry.

“Remember my advice, mate – play it cool. Be friendly and polite, but not effusive,” Draco cautions.

“Like Master Malfoy with Grace Lady Granger?” Macdolas retorts. “Macdolas shouldn’t gift Ruibby special truffles and expensive robes?”.

 _Cheeky little bounder!_ Draco stiffens. “Watch it, pipsqueak – that’s a whole different kettle of fish.”

The twinkle in Macdolas’s googly kiwi eyes betrays his sauciness as he obsequiously replies, “As you say, Master Malfoy.”

Sighing vexedly, Draco is suddenly reminded of his primary concern once he’d realized the identity of Hermione’s Floo visitor this morning…

_What the devil is Luna going to tell Hermione about me today?_

He swears in French, cursing his indiscreet teenage self to the Louvre and back.

_Je suis tellement dans la merde._

* * *

“… their wool is called ‘the fibre of God’, and they can only be shorn once every three years,” Luna imparts her knowledge about the vicuña (which is a camelid, not a sheep, as she’s already advised) with calm authority. She and Hermione have ditched the Ministry cafeteria in favour of a less crowded Muggle café down the end of the street.

“Wow – is that why their wool is so costly?” Hermione queries. She is having trouble rationalizing the extreme expense of the gorgeous robes Draco gifted her this morning. Especially considering all the clothing the rich wizard has already insisted she wear and keep… his beautiful ebony peacoat, the brown merino sweater, the navy scarf… He’d bluntly refused her attempts to return the items. Is the problem that Draco is ashamed of her fashion sense (or lack thereof)?

Hermione broods as she fiddles with the glass mug of her cooling latté. The idea that Draco is embarrassed to be seen with her – even for the trivial reason of her plebeian dress standards – is not a happy one.

Luna’s bright voice returns Hermione’s attention to the conversation at hand. “The other reason their fleece is so prized is because the hand-looming process is time-consuming and highly specialized. Are you considering investing in a vicuña flock, Hermione?”. The petite blonde witch asks the question with apparent sincerity, before taking a delicate bite out of her ‘veggie delight’ sandwich.

Smiling, Hermione shakes her head. “No – but thank you very much for the information, Luna. I asked because… “ she hesitates. _I really need to get some perspective on my… situation with Draco. And I know I can trust Luna implicitly… Stuff it, I’ll tell her._

“… because Draco gave me an astonishingly splendid vicuña wool dressing gown this morning, to replace my old pink robe. And he also presented me with a custom-made mulberry silk kimono, ‘for the warmer months’,” Hermione confesses to her chum.

“That’s quite ‘friendly’ of Draco, isn’t it?” Luna observes. “Almost like something a boyfriend might do…” she swings her candid ice-blue eyes to Hermione’s swiftly reddening face. 

“Well, he’s not – we’re not – that’s not… that’s not what he meant by it. I don’t think. No, I’m sure. Draco was insistent that our arrangement be restricted to… um… a sexual liaison only,” Hermione finishes in a twaddling rush, pretending an intense interest in her ham and salad roll.

Luna isn’t fazed in the slightest by Hermione’s awkward confession. “Hmm. Is that how it’s been, Hermione? Solely sexual?”. The little Ravenclaw takes a sip of her apple juice.

“No.” The word trips from Hermione’s tongue before she can censor herself. “Draco… he’s taken care of me, ever since I collapsed at his front door that night…” the shocked expression on Luna’s artless face opens the floodgates; Hermione sketches her bizarre tale as succinctly as she can. Luna occasionally asks for clarification, but mostly simply sits and listens intently.

Although Hermione does not go into detail about the particulars of their private sexual escapades (admitting that she was the party who initiated their first joining was uncomfortable enough, _thankyouverymuch_!), her neck and face are inflamed with waves of blood rush as she concludes, “Draco has been amazingly good to me, Luna. He brought me a menstrual relief potion… and Belgian truffles. He’s watching Pride and Prejudice with me… and quoting the lines!”.

There is a tiny smirk grooving Luna’s closed mouth; it vanishes as Luna pronounces, “My mother always said it is better to trust in what someone does than what someone says, Hermione. Words are cheap but deeds will keep.”

Hermione rips tiny pieces off the remains of her abandoned luncheon roll. She must have been chewing off Luna’s ear for longer than she realized, as the lunch rush has dwindled to a trickle. The lunch hour she usually considers too long now seems aggravatingly short. And she still hasn’t learned a single thing about Luna and Draco’s unlikely friendship.

“Luna – when does your seminar finish? It starts at one o’clock, correct?” Hermione nudges her plate aside and leans her elbows on the table, her cocoa eyes aglow as she thinks through her impulse.

Tilting her head like a flaxen sparrow, Luna hums assent. “Mmmm. It should be finished by half past three, unless someone is bitten by a loose Mackled Malaclaw. What are you thinking, Hermione?”

Hermione grins audaciously. “I’m thinking that once your seminar is done… Girls’ night at my place? Macdolas will jump at the chance to whip us up some hors d'oeuvres and we could crack open that dubious bottle of wine I got a few Christmases ago. You, me, an excitable house elf and a cranky cat equals a fun Friday evening!”.

“Oh, do you have an early mark today?” Luna asks as she nods her acceptance of the spontaneous invitation.

“I do now,” Hermione clarifies. “Marilda will probably be delighted – she’s forever urging me to ‘kick up my heels’ and ‘trip the light fantastic’, whatever that means.”

“But you’re not wearing heels,” Luna points at Hermione’s ‘sensible’ flat-soled brown pumps. “So you needn’t worry about tripping,” she sagely decrees.

 _Oh, Luna. I_ have _missed you._ Hermione bites her lip and stands to hug her wonderfully unique chum.

* * *

“Mother – I need your help. Please,” Draco appends as Narcissa’s left eyebrow quirks. She rises from her parlour armchair to enfold her son in an affectionate embrace and lightly kisses each ivory cheek in turn.

“Darling, what has you in such a pother? Are Macdolas and Ruibby feuding again?” Narcissa looks apprehensive at the prospect of a continuation of elven warfare.

“I bloody well hope not,” Draco answers with feeling. “He’s given me enough trouble this week, what with his fawning adoration of – of his current employer.” _What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I trying to win “Windbag of the Week’?_

Draco rushes to cut off his snoopy mother at the pass. “I need your ballet tickets for tomorrow night, please.” At her non-plussed look, he elucidates, “For that modern ballet you mentioned – _Synergy_? What’s the name of the place?”

“The Place,” Narcissa responds.

Draco resists the temptation to roll his cinder-grey eyes at his mother’s obtuseness. “Yes, Mother – the modern ballet place – what’s it called, please?” he urges.

“The. Place.” Narcissa snaps. Mother and son glare at each other in mounting frustration.

“If you don’t wish for me to pilfer your tickets, Mother – do just say so, please. I haven’t time for word games,” Draco huffs.

Narcissa clips out her next words as though she’s dead-heading the Manor’s rose garden. “Draco Lucius Malfoy: the name of the venue hosting _Synergy_ is called ‘The Place’. It is located in King’s Cross. I will hand over the ballet tickets on one condition.” She crosses her silk-sheathed arms and drums her plum-painted fingernails along her upper arms. “Well?”.

“What is the condition?” Draco sighs. _This won’t be pleasant._

“I want you to agree to escort the daughter of one of my old friends to the theatre next week,” Narcissa haughtily communicates.

“Let me think about it – NO.” _For the love of snakes… not this matchmaking crap again. I thought I put this to bed two years ago._

“Why ever not, Draco? It’s a small favour – I’m not asking you to wed the girl, for goodness sake. You know her, she’s stunning –“

“Mother, she could be the modern day reincarnation of Helen of Troy – I still would not be interested.”

Resigned to sourcing the tickets another way, Draco turns to leave.

“Wait.” Narcissa lays a smooth hand on his shoulder. “The ballet tickets… do you wish to escort your mystery woman?”. Her quasar-blue eyes glimmer with shrewd excitement.

“What if I do?” Draco counters. His Occlumency shields slam down like a medieval portcullis. Narcissa smiles vivaciously.

“My darling son, if that were the case – I’d be delighted to offer you my seats.” At Draco’s subdued nod, Narcissa claps decisively.

“Excellent! Here – I’ll call in Ruibby to fetch them, they’re sitting on my dresser.” She clicks her graceful ivory fingers and calls the elvish housekeeper’s name.

The fey moppet materializes an instant later. “Lady Malfoy has called Ruibby?”. Her osseous little hands are clasped demurely in her lap, but her amethyst eyes briefly flicker in Draco’s direction; he is startled by their visible gall.

Narcissa either doesn’t notice Ruibby’s banked ire, or chooses to ignore it. “Yes, Ruibby dear – would you be so kind as to collect the two ballet tickets from the top of my bedroom dresser, please? Draco will be attending the performance with his new lady friend tomorrow.” She smirks at the over-share; it was clearly included to discomfit her son.

Ruibby dips a small curtsy, laterally stretching the severe black skirt of her traditional housekeeper’s uniform. “Ruibby gladly complies, Lady Malfoy.” Just before she Disapparates, Ruibby fires another peppery glower in Draco’s direction.

 _Which crime have I committed to earn the wrath of the munchkin version of Mrs Danvers?_ Draco is at a loss for an answer. He waits silently for Ruibby’s return, avoiding his mother’s avid scrutiny. She opens her pristinely-painted mouth just as the crack of Apparation echoes in the restfully-decorated salon.

Narcissa graciously inclines her head as Ruibby proffers the rectangular slips. “Thank you, dear. Draco shall take them.” He reaches for them but Ruibby fails to relinquish them straightaway, despite his gentle tug.

“If Ruibby may, she desires to speak with Master Malfoy,” the teeny seneschal declares. Sensing drama, Narcissa settles into her Bergère chair and pours herself another cup of fragrant tea.

“Of course, Ruibby. Master Malfoy is always available to hear your grievances,” she archly consents.

Ruibby launches into her diatribe before Draco has a chance to object.

“Ruibby demands to learn the identity of Macdolas’s new Liege Lady, Master Malfoy! Macdolas comes into the Manor kitchen to wax poetic of her ‘glorious graciousness’ and ‘magnificent magnanimity’… with a smug smile that Ruibby itches to slap from Macdolas’s vapid visage, yes she does!”. She bristles with injured indignation… and more than a hint of jealous spite?

 _How is it the ruddy elves are more articulate than most of my schoolmates? Trust Macdolas to ignore my repeated cautions and run his mouth worse than a jabbering Jarvey._ His tensed hands grip air as he imagines shaking some sense into the pint-sized pissant. His irritation swells with the sound of Narcissa’s tinkling laughter.

“You’re not in a position to demand that information, Ruibby – but rest assured I shall be having a disciplinary discussion with your fool inamorato in the near future,” Draco sternly assures. He almost rips the perforation lines as he wrests the ballet tickets free from Ruibby’s clutches. “Where is the mouthy scamp, anyway?”.

“Macdolas yet regales the scullery staff with his balderdash,” Ruibby disparages. “Master Malfoy would do well to remind Macdolas that a closed mouth gathers no feet.”

Narcissa interjects before Draco’s dander climbs any higher at the unsolicited advice. “Thank you for that enlightening information, Ruibby. You may be excused.”

With a tight smile for Narcissa (and a final scowl for Draco), Ruibby Disapparates.

Draco bolts for the parlour door before Narcissa can start on him. “I’ll see you later at dinner, Mother.” He doesn’t acknowledge her warning sally but hears it clearly.

“You shan’t keep your secret from me much longer, son of mine!”.

* * *

_Friday 07 March 2003: PM_

“Hello? Macdolas? It’s just me and Luna,” Hermione calls out in warning as they exit her Floo fireplace. Her quick scan of the lounge room shows the only occupant is a prodigiously fluffy half-Kneazle diligently grooming himself smack-bang in the middle of the red Chesterfield. Crookshanks spares them an indifferent gander before he acrobatically sticks up one hind leg and commences licking his inner thigh with an off-putting moist squelch. _Eww_.

“Get down please, Crooky,” Hermione scolds him automatically. He pays her no heed, his licks increasing to chews as he works industriously at a tangled clump of thick marigold fur.

She is relieved when Macdolas breathlessly barrels into the room. “Grace Lady Granger and her cherubic comrade have returned! Macdolas is happy to report that he and the Crookshanks are now bosom buddies!”.

The huge mango-hued tom makes a noise as though he’s preparing to disgorge a hairball. _Lovely_.

“Um, that’s wonderful news, Mac.” Hermione realizes she is yet to formally introduce Luna to Macdolas.

“Luna, may I present my loyal protector, Macdolas? Mac, this is my dear friend, Luna Lovegood. We’ve returned early for a little ‘girls’ night in’,” Hermione explains. She bypasses the exaggerated bow that Mac has already begun performing by stroking her index finger along the expertly-repaired small punctures her pet left in the back of his blue-and-gold astrological smoking jacket that morning.

“You’ve done wonders fixing the tears, Mac – I was going to offer to stitch up the rips for you, but you’ve beaten me to it,” Hermione smiles.

“Master Malfoy shows me a book from your library, Grace Lady Granger,” the major-domo nods.

Undaunted by the interruption, Macdolas slants his frank little face towards Luna again. “Macdolas is honoured to meet The Luminescent Lady Luna Lovegood,” he ceremoniously avers.

Luna bestows her amiable, mystic smile upon the house elf. Her light bluebell eyes hold a touch of melancholy; Hermione suspects that they are both mourning darling Dobby, and his devoted sacrifice.

“Macdolas begs leave to prepare tempting vittles for the Night of the Girls?”. His prominent ears palpitate with enthusiasm.

“Perfect! And would you please bring us two wineglasses and the bottle of red wine up the back of the pantry, Mac?”.

A minor pause. “Macdolas admits to finding the inferior vintage and donating it to the Malfoy Manor’s kitchen for cooking wine,” he ruefully confesses. “But Macdolas replaces it in a jiffy with the best of the Manor’s locked cellar!”.

 _And… he’s gone_. Hermione blinks as Mac vanishes with a familiar crack.

“I like him,” Luna quietly states. “Do you think he’ll live with you and Draco, once you’re married?”.

“Luna! Don’t be ridiculous!” Hermione decides this must be another of Luna’s cryptic jests. She forces a laugh. “Draco Malfoy would never marry _me_.”

Luna shrugs. “Did you ever think Draco Malfoy would be showering you in luxury gifts and loaning you his house elf to ensure your safety and comfort, Hermione? Or that you’d be counting the minutes until you were able to touch him again?”. She chuckles at Hermione’s hot face and gaping mouth. “Mmmm. I thought not.”

Shaking her head vigorously, Hermione finds her voice again. “Nuh-uh – I mean, no… I’ve told you, Draco was the one who said he didn’t ‘want or need’ a girlfriend, remember? Much less a wife,” she mutters crossly.

“Yes – because he doesn’t believe he deserves to be happy… or to have the woman he’s always yearned for,” Luna coolly drops her bombshell.

Hermione actually feels her legs giving out at the revelation; she slumps onto the couch as Crookshanks begrudgingly shifts a few inches to avoid being squashed.

“What the fuck, Luna?!?” she whispers hoarsely. Hope flairs and fights with her Bitch Inner Realist.

 _No. No. No. It’s simply not possible._ She sinks her trembling fingers in Crooky’s dense orange coat, desperate to ground her tumbling emotions. Luna squeezes in on the other side of the Kneazlecat, blithely ignoring his protesting growl.

Her butternut-blonde pal’s composure is barely rattled, Hermione is disgruntled to note. Luna is watching her as though Hermione is a newly-discovered magical species. _‘The Dumbfounded Dunderhead’, perhaps._

The faint sound of Macdolas returning to the kitchen anchors her to the shocking conversation at hand.

“Luna – are you seriously claiming that Draco Malfoy told you he is – or _was_ – in love with _me_?”. Despite her attempt to keep her voice even, Hermione winces as she hears herself squawk on the last phrase.

“He never explicitly said those words… but I see more than some people give me credit for,” Luna’s confidence in her outrageous claim is unflappable.

Hermione relaxes immediately. “I understand. You are a romantic at heart, Luna – and I love you for it – but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the wand on this point.” She sucks in a deep inhale as her tension begins to ease. _Hah. Panic attack, stand down. No point prodding at why this silly idea nearly gave me heartburn, either._

The blonde Ravenclaw’s eyes darken to sapphires in a rare display of temper. “Hermione, I was held prisoner in Malfoy Manor’s dungeons for months. Draco came down to see us every day – unless he was too injured from being Crucio’ed and having his mind violated with Legilimency by Bellatrix and Voldemort – and he talked to me, sometimes for hours. Once or twice, he stayed with us the whole night through because he was worried that the worst of the Death Eaters intended to ‘play’ with us.” She ignores Hermione’s horrified expression.

“He was supposed to torture us on occasion – we practised screaming at the top of our lungs, and worked out plausible answers together whenever Draco was tasked with learning something specific.’

“When I was first captured, Mr Ollivander told me that Draco and Narcissa had secretly kept him alive for over a year – and not to interrogate him, or make wands for Voldemort’s followers. They’d snuck him as much extra rations and blankets as they could without attracting suspicion, and Draco continued that when I arrived.’

“Draco rarely asked me directly, but nearly every conversation meandered back to you. At first I didn’t answer when he enquired about my faith in the Golden Trio’s ability to survive on the run, or whether you had a solid plan in place to defeat the Dark Lord. I thought he was buttering me up to give Voldemort more information as to your whereabouts. But then… then I noticed how his eyes softened when I spoke of you, even in the vaguest of references… his mouth relaxed and he lost his constant aura of torment, for a little while.’

“At first, Draco would casually say things like, ‘Tell me about your friends, Luna – what are their families like? What interests do you share? Do you spend much time with them, outside of Hogwarts?’. Of course, I didn’t have any friends except you and Ginny. Draco looked bored when I told him about Ginny, but he noticeably perked up whenever I mentioned your name.’

“He wanted to know every detail of your life, Hermione. Your favourite colour? Coffee or tea? White or black, and how many sugars? Your favourite school subject? Hobbies? Which form did your corporeal Patronus take? Why didn’t you like to fly on broomsticks? Did you like apples? Did Viktor Krum disrespect you, or take advantage of you in any way? Did Harry and Ron treat you well? What ambitions did you have, post-Hogwarts?’.

Luna’s spurt of anger has dulled; she looks troubled. “I don’t like to betray Draco’s confidences, Hermione. He refused to go into detail about what was happening upstairs, unless he felt we needed to know of a specific danger. But there was one night, towards the end…” she trails off, eyes clouded with dark memories.

Brandy-brown eyes silently weeping, Hermione urges Luna to continue. “Please, Luna. I have to know.”

Pale cotton-candy head down bent, Luna nods minutely and picks up her narrative again.

“Draco had obviously been tortured for hours, Hermione; he was sheet-white, shivering, barely able to negotiate the stone steps. We heard him fall twice. He finally dragged himself to the bars and pulled a few bread rolls from his pockets. ‘It’s all I could grab – I’m sorry,’ he said. I held his hand – it was ice cold, clammy. He lacked the strength to return the gentlest squeeze.’

“Then he said under his breath, ‘I wish they’d just kill me and be done with it… if I could only ensure her safety, I’d do it myself…’.”

Luna raises her head and stares fiercely at the sobbing brunette witch beside her.

“Hermione – he wasn’t referring to his mother. Draco despised his father by that stage (he called him the ‘Coward of the County’), but he was confident that Lucius would die before he’d see Narcissa harmed.’

“Draco was talking about _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation:
> 
> Je suis tellement dans la merde – I am so fucked.


	26. Rendezvous

__

_Saturday 08 March 2003: PM_

_Does this look stupid? I wish Luna hadn’t already gone home. I wish I knew what I were doing… and not just with the dress._

Hermione mashes her bottom lip with her left incisor as she stares doubtfully at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. The tea-length chiffon cocktail dress that she’d instantly fallen for in the little boutique Luna had guided her to earlier today now seems ill-suited and… pretentious? Hermione shakes her freshly-washed head of dark bronze curls and sinks onto the end of the bed, shaky hands pressed to her faintly-aching forehead.

Last night’s shock, nerves and the wild hope that she’d distracted with sororal company and deadened with top-shelf alcohol ( _why so much wine? Why? I blame you, Macdolas_ ) have returned ten-fold. No, thousand-fold. Hermione’s stomach churns unpleasantly as she remembers Luna’s breath-taking disclosures.

 _She said that Draco loves me._ The astonished wonder and thrill of that concept rocket through her mind and body yet again.

No. Correction. _Luna said that Draco **loved** me_, Hermione soberly rectifies her earlier thought. _As in_ , past tense. _As in_ , maybe he’d experienced an intense teenage crush that had flared brighter due to the circumstantial stressors of peril, torment, and loneliness. _As in_ , maybe he’d really meant what he said in the café, about not wanting a committed romantic relationship.

_As in… maybe I’m wishing on a dim star that’s merely a soulless lump of space rock._

Hermione can’t stop twin tears leaking out of the far corners of her closed eyes. She has been weeping on and off since Luna had told her the harrowing tale of her imprisonment in the Malfoy dungeons and Draco’s desperation to maintain the captives’ safety and survival. Hearing about Draco’s systematic torture and hopeless wish for death… for _suicide_ … Hermione is incapable of stopping an anguished, sympathetic sob from escaping her slim throat.

Sheer strength of will has her cutting off the sound mid-bawl; Macdolas is buzzing around somewhere behind her closed bedroom door. Well, not so much buzzing as _dragging_. The reedy manservant’s insistence on testing last night’s ‘borrowed’ wine for poisons, and his easy capitulation in joining the two witches in their reckless consumption of the expensive bottles of cabernet had swiftly resulted in the sozzled little steward belting out one Scottish ballad after another. His repertoire of Muggle and wizard songs alike had been impressively extensive and uniformly awful. Crooky had pinned back his tufted ears and fled into the sanctuary of Hermione’s bedroom after Mac had thoroughly butchered the first verse of ‘Ally Bally Bee’. 

As to his bastardized performances of ‘Dumbledore Where’s Your Troosers?’ and the unforgettably wailed ‘Scotland the Brave’… the less said of that, the better. Mac had been so squiffy, he’d not objected to Luna and Hermione’s raucous mirth at his impromptu concert.

The remembrance of their antics and the joy of convivial friendship helps shore up Hermione’s dwindling spirits. There is no fuzziness attached to her memory of Luna sternly insisting that Draco Malfoy was and IS head-over-heels in love with one Hermione Granger.

“That boy – that MAN – would do anything to keep you safe, Hermione. He was prepared to die for you, and you’re sitting here doubting that Draco is your boyfriend in everything but name? I should smack some sense into you with a Sugar Shrub stick. Macdolas – please bring me a Sugar Shrub stick!”.

Luna’s vehemence had unfortunately been tempered by a bout of the hiccoughs and a slow slide off the Chesterfield onto the floor. Mac hadn’t paused in his mushy interpretation of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Being semi-sprawled on the floor hadn’t finished Luna’s soft rant.

“And another thing: Draco can’t yet tell you how he feels, so he _shows_ you he cares, you silly Gryffy! He gives you clothes and chocolates and period potions and his sweet little elf as your bodyguard… and he makes you meals and takes you to cafés and restaurants… and he’s escorting you to the ballet… and all because he loves you desperately and he can’t stop loving you… and ohhhh he’s going to be cranky as a Chinese Fireball when he finds out what I’ve told you… but you needed to be told… and I am smart enough to see that, even if you two aren’t…”

Luna had paused to sip at the wineglass that had somehow withstood her dainty slither onto the lounge room rug. “This is very fine wine… I’ll have to get a bottle for Father’s birthday.”

Hermione wipes at her damp cheeks and resolves to trust what Luna has told her… No, to trust in what Draco has _shown_ her.

 _And what of my own stupid, wilfully blind heart? Am I ready to admit that I’ve fallen for Draco Lucius Malfoy like a ton of bricks?_ She glares at her tear-blurred mirror image. _Some Gryffindor you are, you cowardly little lion._

Sighing, Hermione touches her fingertips to the glossy cardboard slips that protrude from the top of her Extendable beaded bag. She’d shambled out of bed this morning, determined to down as much Pepper-up Potion and paracetamol as required to feel human enough to make a quick trip into the office and purchase the two tickets for the Ministry’s Spring Equinox Ball later in the month.

Luna had been an unmoving lump beneath the blankets of her makeshift bed on the couch before Hermione had waved a steaming cup of herbal tea over her petite curled-up form. The fragrant brew had worked its olfactory magic as Luna had popped up, looking remarkably refreshed.

Poor Macdolas hadn’t fared as well; he’d only regained limited consciousness on his chaise longue as the two friends had quietly conversed about Hermione’s idea to invite Draco to accompany her to the Ministry gala event. His cheeping groans had provided an interesting background to their discussion.

“Luna, I want to show Draco that I’m proud to walk beside him… I want to show the world that he is the man I choose to be with,” she’d hesitantly (but unconditionally) stated. “I realize that he doesn’t think himself worthy of me – and that his complicated past haunts him – but it’s past time that I showed him he’s my equal… in every way.” Hermione had sucked in a juddering breath before she’d been able to continue.

“I’ve never – I’ve never felt like this before, Luna. I’m petrified, OK? I’ve been living a half-life. Deluding myself into believing my own rhetoric about being fulfilled – personally and professionally. And that’s on me… I don’t need a partner to be ‘whole’, that’s not what I’m saying,” she’d fumbled for the right words to express her complicated emotional state.

“I _want_ Draco as much as I need him, Luna. I know this sounds silly… and fluffy, and hopelessly romantic… but it feels like Draco was made for me. An answer to a question I never spoke aloud. The lid to my pot. The butter to my bread. The mustard pickles on my corned beef sandwich. The – “

“I get it, Hermione,” Luna had smiled gently. “He’s the grey wolf to your striped hyena, isn’t he?”

“He’s the _what_ now?” Hermione had asked bemusedly.

Nodding sagely, Luna had explained, “They hunt together. The wolves are swift and powerful hunters, while the hyenas have a superb sense of smell and can snap large bones, open tin cans and tear through rubbish. The perfect symbiotic relationship: the best of both worlds.”

 _Great. I’m a trash-destroying, bone-crushing, in-built can-opening wild dog._ Luna had beamed as though she’d paid Hermione the highest compliment.

 _Mayhap she has… but I’d rather be the grey wolf_ , Hermione had smiled to herself.

“Yes, you’re absolutely correct, Luna. Would you please help me with looking my best for the ballet tonight?”.

And so they’d trawled the High street in search of an appropriate outfit for Hermione to wear to tonight’s modern ballet. Initially Hermione had been apprehensive about Luna’s potential fashion choices, but her friend had unerringly steered her toward classic styles and flattering, muted hues.

“Don’t worry, Hermione. I know you don’t like being the centre of attention, unless it’s in class.” Luna’s perceptive comment had been accompanied by her usual small, enigmatic smile.

Still perched on the edge of her sleigh bed, Hermione looks critically at the dress they’d chosen. It is a dusky mauve, ‘princess’ style with a sweetheart neckline and banded straps that wrap around her upper arms, leaving her clavicles and throat exposed. The diaphanous length hits at mid-calf and perfectly showcases her delicate new kitten-heeled silver shoes. The bodice is embroidered with an identically-coloured thread in a subtle floral pattern, and tiny silver sequins. Besides the blue gown Hermione wore to the Yule Ball years ago, it is the loveliest frock she’s ever owned.

Rising determinedly off the bed, Hermione straightens her spine and bares her teeth at the witch in the looking glass.

_I am a beautiful, sexy woman wearing a gorgeous dress, readying myself for a wonderful date with my **boyfriend** … and tonight I’m going to show the stubborn git exactly how much he means to me. _

_Better get a wriggle on._

* * *

Draco slams shut the front door; he’s annoyed by his weakness in letting Blaise Zabini get under his skin yet again. The shameless son of a Bludger had turned up uninvited half an hour ago and badgered Draco mercilessly until the blond wizard had caved in to his ‘request’. He had acceded, but mostly to be rid of the smarmy jerk before Hermione was due to arrive. Draco scowls fearsomely.

He marches to the hallway mirror and fiddles needlessly with his half-Windsor tie knot. Hermione should arrive any moment: she is as scrupulously punctual as he. He critically appraises his appearance. Dark charcoal fitted-suit, black dress shirt, narrow argentine tie. His accompanying jet scarf and marled sleet-grey topcoat are folded atop the living room couch.

Vertically smoothing his left hand down the dark silver tie, Draco briefly lets his exhilaration find expression on his alabaster face. He cannot wait to see Hermione again – spending the night alone in his too-big bed upstairs last night just felt _wrong_. And had given him far too much time to brood over the high probability that Hermione would not have missed the opportunity to thoroughly pump Luna for every single detail about their odd friendship… and him. _Fuck_. He quells the incipient panic at the likelihood of having his vulnerable, wizened heart feebly pulsing at her feet.

Not that he believes Hermione would deliberately stomp on it… but being pitied and humoured by the kind-hearted little lioness would crush him just as badly as intentional rejection. His elation now tastes like ashes.

“It’s fine,” Draco mutters, tightening the knot around his neck. “It will be fine. If she mentions your unhealthy teenage interest, you attribute it to raging hormones and the allure of the forbidden. Yeah. It’s fine. It will be fine.”

Light steps exiting his Floo fireplace interrupt his desperate pep talk.

“Malfoy? Hello? I’m a little early, I hope you don’t mind…” Hermione’s mellifluous voice floats from the lounge room.

Forcing himself not to actually run, Draco strides as quickly as he is able into the room.

And stops dead at the utterly resplendent vision before him, his cool greeting frozen in his rapidly-bobbing throat.

Hermione is standing beside the hearth, a study in poised perfection… except for her graceful hands rhythmically tensing and relaxing on the familiar little beaded bag that she holds out in front. The black peacoat is draped around her shoulders like a loose cape. Her shy, closed-mouth smile falters at Draco’s continued silence as his carbonite grey eyes roam compulsively over her face and figure.

The lavender gown she wears fits her like a glove; the A-line skirt flares gently as Hermione uneasily shifts her weight from one shapely leg to the other. Her breasts swell enticingly as her breathing stutters beneath his ardent attention. Draco tracks his gaze up to the sweet curves of her exposed shoulders and throat.

 _She deserves a set of silver and purple jewels – perhaps diamonds and violet sapphires? Necklace or earrings? Perhaps both?_ He makes a mental note to address the issue later. Her hair is skilfully wound in a braided coronet, with little mahogany ringlets kissing her neck and forehead.

“Hi… you look very handsome,” Hermione quietly offers. Her dark brows scrunch as Draco remains silent.

“Is there a problem… am I dressed inappropriately? Is the dress not formal enough? Is it too stuffy? I haven’t been to the ballet in an age – I thought that the audience probably still dresses up, even though it’s modern dance and not classical ballet – look, I’ll just pop back and change – “

“Don’t you bloody dare, Granger,” Draco finally croaks, appalled by the suggestion. Her nervous vacillation over her appearance breaks the spell he was under. He decreases the distance between them in a rush, unable to keep from sliding his trembling hands around her waist.

He locks eyes with the self-conscious witch, seeking to find the exact words to express his sentiments.

“Hermione Jean Granger, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen… or known. I cannot decide whether you are an angel or a goddess in that dress, _ma petite_. Never doubt your loveliness… inside and out.” Draco closes his eyes to brush a reverential kiss across her rosy pink mouth, careful not to disturb her sophisticated make-up.

His caution is for naught; Hermione deepens the kiss instantly. She drops her little bag and latches her hands behind his head as she steps into his body. The raven greatcoat slips from her shoulders to whump onto the floor. It could spontaneously burst into flames for all Draco cares. He is drowning in rapture, overloaded by the sensory phenomenon of Hermione’s passionate embrace. Her lips cling to his with an exceptional (but greatly appreciated) intensity.

Draco is giving serious thought to cancelling their plans in favour of carrying Hermione upstairs when she shifts her arms to wrap them around his torso in a tight hug and rests her cheek against his thumping heart. Her next sentence nearly arrests the beleaguered organ.

“I missed you, Malfoy,” Hermione whispers, her breath hitching before she coughs. Worry joins Draco’s disbelief and flooding euphoria.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”. He takes a step back to quickly scan her face.

Hermione shakes her head and pins on a smile. “I’m fine – I just want you to know that I – I’m happy to be here. With you.”

“Granger – I missed you too. _Plus que tu ne le sauras jamais_. I wish – “ Draco inhales sharply, internally reproving his impulse to throw his haggard heart out for a trampling. _Enough_.

He frantically kisses the hovering questions off her sweet lips, easing only when they are both panting for air. “Let’s… let’s go to dinner, Granger. I think you’ll like this restaurant.”

Not waiting for a reply, Draco bends to nimbly scoop up her odd little bag and discarded overcoat. He adds his own topcoat and scarf to the draped pile on his left arm. “Where’s your scarf?” he frowns.

“It’s in my bag – never mind, I’m quite warm now.” Hermione flicks him a shy upward glance as her cheeks kindle pink. She laces her fingers with his. “I’m ready.”

Before he focuses on their joint Apparation, Draco takes a moment to soak in Hermione’s beauteousness; he fixes her image in his memory. A line of poetry pops into his mind: ‘You are the beautiful half / Of a golden hurt’.

 _I’ll always have **this** … come what may_, he thinks fiercely.

* * *

“You got Macdolas drunk?” Draco looks as incredulous as he sounds as Hermione attempts to defend herself between giggles. “Merlin, Granger! I thought you wanted to emancipate house elves – not dissipate them! Poor little bugger,” he teases, leaning back against the sumptuous cushions in their intimate dining booth.

“It truly wasn’t our fault! Mac was determined to ensure the wine he took – I mean, the wine we drank – was not tampered with, or poisonous… And then we offered him the dregs of the first bottle, and he kept sipping…” Hermione laughs anew at the remembrance of her borrowed manservant stoutly warbling as he’d swayed atop the coffee table.

Of course, her slip of the tongue does not elude her companion’s notice. “’The wine he took?’” Draco parrots shrewdly. “Took from where?”.

“Um… as you said, Mac is very resourceful.” Hermione hastily reaches for her water glass, but Draco clasps her hand to stymie the evasion. He slides closer; they are seated side-by-side, the better to facilitate Draco hand-feeding her titbits from the appetizer sharing platter.

She tries again. “I’ve never enjoyed such tasty Persian food before – how did you come to know of this place?”.

Draco ignores her ploy. “The little rapscallion pinched the booze from the Manor’s cellars, didn’t he? Granger?”. His smoke-grey eyes dance with amusement, belying his stern tone as he traces her palm’s fate line with his thumb.

“Well, technically Mac _exchanged_ it,” Hermione temporizes. “Here – you haven’t eaten your fair share of the kuku sibzamini yet.” She clumsily tears one of the saffron and potato fritters in two before pushing it between his lips, grinning as Draco sputters. Her smirk is short-lived as Draco holds her fingers at his mouth; he swallows the last bite of fritter before slowly sucking clean her digits.

 _Holy Horned Serpents!_ Hermione feels that erotic suckle bulleting to each and every nerve ending. Her brain short-circuits as Draco gently returns her hand to the table.

“Delicious.” His hot gaze leaves no doubt that he was referring to her fingers, rather than the food.

She hides her involuntary amorous writhe by reaching for her napkin, and bumbles about for a different topic. “How was your day, Malfoy?”.

Offering her a morsel of sesame-seeded flatbread coated in minted cucumber yoghurt dip, Draco absently replies, “My day went well, until that tiresome doofus Zabini banged on my front door. Try the mast-o-khiar.”

Hermione tries to lick at his fingertips to repay his earlier sensual tease, but Draco is too quick. She diligently chews, enjoying the salty, herbed flavours.

“What did Blaise want? I didn’t realize you two were such close friends,” she dabs her mouth with the napkin before sipping some water.

“We’re not! He’s like herpes simplex – you can’t get rid of him once he’s entered your system,” Draco grumbles. “An aggravating flare-up that can be treated but never cured.”

She feels compelled to make a token objection, despite chuckling at Draco’s cutting quip and his aggrieved expression. “But Blaise is quite decent underneath all that bravado and swagger, isn’t he?” she prompts, keen to know more about Draco’s interpersonal relationships.

 _There’s so much I want to learn… so many things I wish he’d share with me_ , Hermione wistfully ponders. Her nerves flare as she pulls her Extendable bag into her lap; the table hides her compulsive reassuring touch at the tickets lodged just inside the opening.

 _You’ve stalled long enough, woman – just get it over with and ask Draco to be your plus-one at the Ball! Tell him what he really means to you… and don’t chicken out like you did in his lounge room._ Hermione resolves to lay her cards on the table, once Draco has finished answering her query about Blaise.

He shrugs dismissively. “I suppose Zabini’s not all bad – that is, when he isn’t plaguing me into honouring a favour I rashly promised when I recently asked for his help. The dastard wouldn’t leave until I’d agreed. I did give my word for the marker to be called in at any time, as he repeatedly reminded me.” Draco twitches his fork and spoon into perfect alignment beside his small share plate.

A peculiar, nasty prescience settles low in Hermione’s stomach. Her pride strives to keep her anxiety from transmuting her voice.

She knots her hands together and quietly asks, “What was the favour?”.

“It boils down to Blaise trying to get into Daphne Greengrass’s knickers,” Draco caustically informs her. “He’s asked Daphne to the Ministry’s Spring Equinox Ball, but she’s refusing to accompany him unless he finds an acceptable date for her younger sister. Which is where I reluctantly enter the picture, apparently.” Blond head bent down, he grimaces as he rearranges the flatware.

Relieved that Malfoy hasn’t witnessed her dismayed reaction, Hermione schools her face into something resembling nonchalance. She shoves the two tickets into the unfathomed depths of the deceptively wee bespangled bag in one violent move.

“You’re taking Astoria Greengrass to the Ministry Gala?” Her acting talents need work; something raw in her tone alerts Draco to her distress. Hermione blindly loads her side plate with a selection of spiced meats and flavoursome condiments, glad for the excuse to avert her gaze. Her appetite has gone the way of the dodo, however.

“Does that bother you? It means nothing, Granger… Astoria means nothing to me. It’s you I want – in my bed. If I hadn’t given Blaise my word, I’d tell him to fuck right off.”

 _Ah. That knife slices deep. ‘In my bed’_. Three qualifying words that scatter Hermione’s optimistic resoluteness like dandelion whiskers. Her insecurity sings a horrid little ditty to the tune of ‘I told you so’. She forces herself to consume a few bites of the Persian specialties as she strains for a bare modicum of self-possession.

 _I need some time to process it – I can’t handle this. And I refuse to start crying – I bloody well won’t!_ Hermione pushes up off the bench, grateful she is on the aisle end. “Excuse me – I need to pee,” she baldly states, dashing for the restaurant’s toilets without waiting for Draco’s response.

Once inside the cramped but clean lavatory cubicle, Hermione gathers her flagging Gryffindor pride and steadfastly refuses to release the veritable army of injured, angry tears massing behind her carob orbs. _You **know** Draco meant what he said… He doesn’t give a fig for Astoria Greengrass. Just because she’s perfectly pretty, and petite, and Pureblood… and blonde… it doesn’t mean Draco intends to dump you for her. He hasn’t the slightest idea that you want to be his date for the ball – because you haven’t _asked _him._

She steps to the vanity and critically scrutinizes her make-up, rummaging in her bag to re-apply the matte rose-pink lipstick. Capping the tube, Hermione glares at her reflection.

_Quit skulking in the loo, get back out there and figure out a way to make Draco admit what you both know but have been avoiding like skittish dormice – he’s your boyfriend, for the love of lions! Blaise bullying Draco into honouring his promise is irrelevant… you weren’t intending to go to the stupid Ministry function until you decided it would be a grand romantic gesture. Use your alleged smarts and figure out another way to show the silly man how much you care._

_‘Prudens qui patiens’, right?_

Freshly empowered, Hermione returns to the booth. Draco rises, concern wreathed across his well-formed features.

“Granger, are you well? Was the food incompatible with your constitution? Has your hangover returned?”. He hovers as she manoeuvres back beside him.

“Such a diplomatic way of checking whether I have a gut-ache and a Katzenjammer,” Hermione teases, smiling freely into Draco’s troubled countenance. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.”

“Ooh – the mains have arrived! Excellent.” Appetite restored, Hermione begins ladling spoonfuls of fragrant zereshk polo, ghormeh sabzi and tahdig onto her plate. Draco follows suit; they consume the luscious chicken with barberries, saffron rice, lamb stew with sautéed herbs and kidney beans, and accompanying crispy rice crust with gusto.

Between bites, their conversation remains neutral. Draco appears subdued as he tells her about Ruibby’s infuriated jealousy and Macdolas’s unwise boasts. “He’s almost as stubborn as you, Granger,” he muses, smiling as Hermione predictably bristles. “That’s a compliment, Golden Girl. Your tenacity is a serious turn-on… except for your constant academic drubbing of this struggling Slytherin at Hogwarts.”

“Struggling? Pfft – like I didn’t see you lurking in the library almost every time I holed up in there!” Hermione scoffs. “The only times you went missing were during Quidditch practices,” she adds.

“You noticed my absences in school?” Draco echoes. He abandons his food, leaning in animatedly as his eyes bore into hers.

Ignoring her initial evasive reaction, Hermione nods firmly. “I did. I noticed everything about you, Malfoy. You were a riddle I simply could not solve. You became a metaphorical Chinese finger puzzle… the harder I poked, the tighter your hold over me.”

She sighs. “I’m surprised you didn’t taunt me about my obsessive regard, actually. I was a sitting duck, but you didn’t raise the shotgun.”

Draco relaxes. “I assumed – obviously – that your hot stares indicated your hatred and disgust, and furthered your determination to out-do me at every turn. Correct?”. He grins lazily, sure of her agreement.

“Not entirely. Yes, I rationalized it as needing to keep a close eye on your shenanigans.. but mostly, I watched you because I couldn’t help myself.”

Despite her rising embarrassment, Hermione is pleased at the way Draco’s pupils dilate at her confession. He makes a funny, throttled noise in his elegant throat.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?”. She decides to give the obtuse blond a little time to digest her revelation. “Malfoy, shouldn’t we be departing for the ballet soon? It starts in twenty minutes,” Hermione points at his posh silver wristwatch.

“Right. Yes. Indeed.” Draco is blushing as he waves for her to precede him from the booth. “It won’t take us long to arrive; it’s but a short walk from Tavistock Square Gardens.” He helps her with her onyx peacoat and navy scarf before he settles their bill.

Slipping on his own outer garments, Draco crooks his arm to escort her outside.

“Looking forward to the ballet, Granger?” he asks softly, once they have reached the street and she is protectively tucked into his side.

Hermione nods happily as they make their way to a darkened nook and prepare to Side-Apparate.

* * *

“Did you enjoy that?” Draco whispers throatily as he nibbles at Hermione’s silky neck in the darkened black taxicab. His hands have already slipped her coat half-off her upper body, unveiling the glorious expanse of smooth olive skin above the heart-shaped neckline of her mauve dress. Hermione whimpers as he wedges his forefinger beneath the scalloped edge of her lacy band-sleeve, following the material from the side of her upper arm to her breast.

“Wha- what?”. She keens again as he tracks his finger north and east, over her fabric-covered nipple, flicking back and forth in a maddeningly slow rhythm.

“The ballet,” Draco prompts, bending to lick along her collarbone. Hermione smells like vanilla and citrus bergamia, with roses as the keynote perfume: sweet and tangy. And she tastes like ambrosia… ‘sugar and spice and all things nice’, Draco grins into her neck. _My fairy tale princess, who slays her own dragons and is far, far sexier for it._

“You were crying during the Second Act; I was worried,” he rasps, breaking from the embrace to seek her expressive honey brown eyes in the dim light of the back seat of the vehicle.

“I cried because it was too, too beautiful,” Hermione quietly admits. “The way the ballerina was confined to the spotlight; her melancholy as she tested the walls of her circular prison, never able to break free, until her partner helped to lift her up, and out; their perfect harmony, each gesture expressing their love and support for each other…’

She glides her hand to the strumming pulse jumping in his neck. “Did you not feel it, Malfoy? The oneness… the _rightness_? The sadness… and the joy?”. Her thumb presses lightly.

Draco nods jerkily. Yes, he’d felt it, marvelled at it… yearned for it, deep in his compartmentalized heart. _No point hoping on it… but ‘a cat may look at a queen’, to paraphrase the old proverb._

Shaking his head, Draco reapplies himself to properly worshipping his monarch. He unbuckles her seat belt to draw the willowy witch onto his lap.

“Malfoy – what if we crash? And why did you insist on catching a cab from the theatre, when we could have easily Disapparated home?” Hermione pants, steadying herself by placing her hands on his broad shoulders as he licks along her trapezius muscle.

“I will never allow any harm befall you – and I once saw a Muggle movie with a scene like this,” Draco divulges. “We have approximately ten minutes before this automobile deposits us back at the townhouse… just enough time to slake my animal lusts upon your helpless person,” he leers wickedly, exulting in her excited gasp.

He smothers her token protest with the hot press of his open mouth, darting his tongue to twine with hers as his fingers busily encroach beneath her gauzy skirt, rubbing gently on the sleek skin of her knee. Hermione’s thighs part even as she softly moans, “Malfoy – you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t _have me_ in the back of a taxi!”.

The darling little lioness isn’t aware that she sounds more stimulated than scandalized.

“Is that a challenge, Granger?” Draco whispers into the pink shell of her ear, biting her lobe before laving the side of her neck.

“You are fully aware I cannot resist a challenge, hmmm?”. He settles her directly above his bulging erection; his long fingers continue their slow crawl up the inside seam of her toned legs.

“But – but the driver – what if he watches?” Hermione murmurs. She rests her floppy coroneted head against his shoulder as she succumbs to his touch, her hands clutching at his sides.

“He can’t see much through the Perspex barrier at night… and you’d best be quiet,” Draco assures the wiggly witch.

She tries again. “Malfoy – I haven’t quite finished my period – I can’t – “

“Shhhh… this is about you, Granger. Relax, _ma petite_ … let me make you feel good…” he salts hungry kisses up and down her neck, unable to resist sucking a few love bites along the way. Hermione keens a tiny cry as his left hand finally breaches the thin barrier of her satiny knickers; Draco teases her by letting the elastic seam bounce lightly against her tender skin a few times.

She takes her revenge immediately, sliding her curvaceous rump along his rigid cockhead. Draco hisses, gripping her right hip to hold her still. He wastes no time parting her labia majora, fingertips slowly grazing along her minor folds, up and down, occasionally dipping to her clitoral pea. He carefully spreads her natural lubrication to ease his strokes. Hermione is practically boneless in his steady embrace.

“You like this, don’t you? Naughty little witch… tell me. Tell me the risk is turning you on… or I’ll stop,” Draco threatens.

“I like it! I like it! Don’t stop now, Malfoy,” Hermione whines. Her head tilts sideways and up as her lips seek his. “Please make me come.”

“Your wish is my command, _ma petite_ ,” Draco matches the increasing pace of his hard, sloping kisses to the pattern and path of his fingers. Hermione is shaking as he muffles her eager cries with his mouth; he allows himself only the minutest of rocking motions beneath her warm bottom.

“We’re almost home, Granger.” He focuses on the clockwise cadence and medium speed that she likes best, upping the pressure of his big fingers. The verbal warning and the change-up effect the desired result: Hermione shudders, her thighs clamping his left hand into place as she rides out her orgasm, convulsing helplessly as he mutes her sob of rapturous release against his lips.

The cab turns the final corner as Hermione sags and curls her body sideways. Draco cradles her in his arms, fumbling a fifty pound note out of his trouser pocket and shoving it into the payment slot at the base of the Perspex barrier.

“Keep the change,” he nods at the impassive silhouette of the driver as he somehow manages to juggle his satiated woman and wrangle the backward-opening cab door. Hermione’s funny little bag is still looped around her wrist. _Good_.

Draco carefully extricates them from the vehicle, nudging the door closed with the flat of his shoe. As he negotiates the front gate and walks up the steps of his abode, he is unable to stop himself from dropping little kisses into Hermione’s hair.

Her eyes blink open; she raises her slim hand to trace it down his slightly-stubbled cheek. The gesture is identical to her touch on the first night he held her in his arms. Draco gulps back the lump in his throat at how close he came to losing her… before he ever had the privilege of truly knowing her.

“Malfoy? Are we home? You can let me go now,” Hermione's joyful smile is candid and bright; he can see his conflicted face reflected in her dilated dark pupils.

Draco simply shakes his head and opens the townhouse door.

_I never want to let you go… though I know I must._

_But – not tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted excerpt is taken from the poem ‘To Be In Love’ by Gwendolyn Brooks, pub 1963.  
> French translation:  
> Plus que tu ne le sauras jamais – More than you’ll ever know.  
> Latin translation:  
> Prudens qui patiens - He is prudent who is patient.


	27. Intrepidity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Samwiches - you asked for a longer scene... I hope you like it.  
> You are an amazing writer and a dear friend.  
> Thank you for all your support.

__

_Saturday 08 March 2003: PM_

Hermione manages to awkwardly wiggle out of Draco’s strong arms once he walks them into the townhouse’s lounge room. Her silver kitten heels stutter for purchase on the smooth wooden flooring, but Draco rebalances her before she can fall. She curses her clumsiness as she smiles gratefully at her big blond lover.

The starburst reverberations from her climax in the back of the black cab are finally receding, but the feeling of relaxed bliss remains. Hermione bites her lip as she thinks of how easily (and how eagerly) she came apart under Draco’s expert fingers. _In semi-public_ … _mercy_ …

“Granger? Are you OK?” Draco is gently stroking the line of her bare shoulder, instantly renewing her recently-sated lust. Hermione instinctively turns her head to allow him access to the afferent skin of her neck and ear; his fingers readily accept her invitation. She stands as still as a forest fawn as he crowds closer.

“Yes… Malfoy, may I run a bath, please?” Hermione quietly requests. Draco nods unhesitatingly.

“Of course.” His hand falls from her neck to twitch restlessly against his lean flank. “Did I… make you feel dirty, in the taxicab?”. Anxiety and self-disgust wreath his face.

“No – never!” Hermione rushes to correct him. “I’d like to enjoy a soak in your big tub… with you,” she clarifies. “Is that something that might interest you?” she winks, hoping it doesn’t look like a facial tic.

Draco’s grin is relieved and intrigued. “Of course,” he drawls, graphite eyes gleaming in the low lamplight. “But I claim the privilege of washing you first.”

“Oh, do you?” Hermione places her hands on either side of Malfoy’s lean hips, drawing him closer. Her strident inner voice screeches unpleasantly.

_Tell him how you feel. You’ve procrastinated long enough… wimp._

Walking backwards, Hermione grasps Draco’s hands to pull him with her, until their legs have bumped into his pastel-blue sofa. “Would you please sit down, Malfoy? First, I’d like to talk with you… it’s important.” Hermione seats herself, legs crossed at the ankles as she glances up nervously.

Slowly, Draco lowers himself to the couch. The familiar expression of deliberate impassivity settles on his aristocratic face, eyes slightly hooded as he returns her serious gaze.

“I’m listening.” His words are clipped and monotonous as he tugs free his hands to rest them on his side-swivelled knees.

Hermione gropes inside the small bag looped over her wrist, scrambling to find the dratted tickets. “Just give me a minute – I pushed them too far inside earlier – hang on –“

Draco doesn’t move a muscle as she scratches about in increasing frustration. The acute tension emanating from his tall form does not help her klutzy progress.

“Aha! Here they are!” Hermione yanks the two slips free at last. She keeps them concealed in her clasped, sticky hands as she braves making eye contact again.

_Here goes nothing – except my fragile heart and dumb pride._

“Malfoy, Luna told me some truths last night. About you… about _us_ ,” Hermione amends, striving not to mumble. Her mouth is dry as a bone. The rich Persian food she’d delighted in a scant few hours ago threatens to make an unwanted return.

_For Godric’s sake – don’t spew on him again! Been there, done that. This also counts as procrastination, you nincompoop._

“Luna said that regardless of our original intent – and the defined parameters of our liaison – well, she reckons that we’re actually in a relationship. That you are my boyfriend, and I’m your girlfriend. For all intents and purposes.” Hermione is proud of her steady diction, despite noting Draco recoiling against the low side-arm of his lounge at the dreaded ‘R’ word.

She ploughs on. “The supporting evidence is clear, Malfoy. You’ve gifted me clothing, food, medicine… you’ve loaned me your _house elf_ , for goodness sake. You’ve cooked me meals and eaten at my table; you’ve taken me on breakfast and dinner dates and escorted me to the ballet; you’ve cuddled with me and watched Pride and Prejudice on my couch; and you’ve been my rock throughout this whole horrible roofie drama.”

Watching Draco flinch as she enumerates each of his caring actions is hardly encouraging, Hermione thinks despondently. _Fuck it. I’ve come this far._

“Malfoy – you hold my hand, and you cuddle me, and you sleep beside me through the night. You kiss me like… like you have an unquenchable thirst and I’m the last bottle of water on a hot day. And yes, we bicker and squabble and butt heads all the time – mostly because you’re wrong and won’t admit it, of course – but honestly? Even that just feels like verbal foreplay to me. You excite me, and arouse me… you challenge me positively, and you support me… you _get_ me, like no one ever has. I’ve never felt as alive, as I have with you for the past three weeks.”

Hermione wraps her shaking hands around her middle. Draco is giving her nothing, response-wise. He doesn’t appear to even be breathing. _Talk about a tough crowd._

“You’ve not hurt me, Malfoy – not until tonight, when you casually informed me that you intend to take another woman to the Spring Equinox Ball. And then, you ‘reassured’ me that I’m the witch you want, ‘in your bed’, anyway.”

Deep breath. Finally, a reaction from the cool Slytherin Prince: Draco opens his sternly sensuous mouth to speak, but Hermione doggedly resumes her monologue.

“I haven’t finished.” She uncovers the tickets and presents them with a flourish. “I went into work today, to pick up two tickets for the Ministry Gala. And I was literally about to ask you to be my date to the event when you told me about your agreement with Blaise. Brilliant timing, wouldn’t you say?” she grimaces at the rhetorical question.

If she weren’t currently sickened by rampaging nerves and her tempestuous fear of rejection, Hermione might have found grim amusement in the way Draco blanches at her admission.

“If you haven’t already guessed what I’m trying to say, Malfoy – here it is. I want to – _officially_ – be your girlfriend. I want to sleep in your bed, and sit at your breakfast bar, and cook you dinner, and snuggle into your arms when you’ve had a bad day. I want to kiss you whenever I like. I want to watch videos on the couch with you; I want to talk about books and history and art and potions and every subject under the sun that you find fascinating. I want us to go on picnics, and out to fancy restaurants, and eat kebabs at a dodgy caff at 2AM after we’ve been out dancing, or catching the midnight screening of ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’. I want to travel with you, to show you my favourite places in the world, and for you to share yours.’

“I want to care for you when you’re sick, and hold you through a nightmare. I want to be the first person you contact when you need help, and the last person you see when you close your eyes at night. And of course – I want to keep having spectacular sex with you. No… I want to make love with you, too.” She feels her neck and cheeks crimsoning but ignores her abashment.

“I want to walk into that stupid, boring Ball in a fortnight with you by my side, and announce to the world: this is my boyfriend Draco Lucius Malfoy, and I am the luckiest witch in the world. But most of all… it’s not just that I want all those things. The plain truth is: I need you in my life. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Ears burning and voice raw with emotion, Hermione falls silent. She’d kept her eyes on Draco throughout her dramatic little speech, but her courage has deserted her now. Staring fixedly at the tickets gripped tightly in her hands, she struggles to hear Draco’s reply over the roar of her wildly rushing blood.

And waits. And waits. Silence seeps into the room like London fog; Hermione can almost see it foaming opaquely at her feet.

Just as she thinks she must scream to disperse it, Draco utters three little words.

“You… need me?”. His voice is an uninflected whisper. Hermione isn’t certain she even heard it, until he repeats it more firmly.

She nods, eyes still downcast and threatening to spill. _Come on, just say it! Say it!_

Draco’s light touch to her trembling chin startles her into a shocked gasp; he gently tips up her face. He’s shifted at some point so that their bodies are almost touching on the lowline settee.

“Look at me. Please,” he entreats. “Please. I need… I need your eyes on me when I say this.”

Swallowing hard, Hermione accedes. His grey orbs are predominantly pupil and glistering whites.

“Granger… I never thought that I would ever hear you say that to me. Are you… certain? Absolutely?”. Draco weaves their hands together to rest on her knee.

Another nod. Hermione does not trust herself to speak. Hope sits up and stretches, yawning. _But if Draco stretches out his response much longer, I may just bite him. Hard._

“Malfoy – please, just say your piece. The suspense is destroying my few remaining nerves,” Hermione jitterily discloses.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times; Hermione begins to realize that Draco is just as on edge as she is.

_Sodding hell… is he trying to let me down gently? Have I grossly miscalculated, and managed to make a complete, desperate fool of myself? Oh, no._

Searing eyes wheeling, Hermione considers making a skittering dash for the Floo fireplace. Her headlong escape is forgotten when Draco expresses himself at last.

“Granger. I… I don’t know… I can’t believe – fuck, I’m ballsing this up already –“ he breaks off, audibly grinding his jaws as Hermione tries to wrench free of his gentle but inexorable handhold. A hot tear rolls off the end of her nose as she shakes her head in distress.

“Let me go! All you had to say was ‘no, thanks’. Malfoy – don’t!”. She thrashes uselessly, arms pinned as Draco fiercely scoops her into a tight embrace.

“Stop it, _ma petite_ – hush, _mon trésor_. You little goose! Please, just listen to me.” Draco tenderly wipes away her panicked tears with a fingertip. Hermione ceases struggling, sitting dully in his lap as she focuses on a patch of wall just behind Draco’s right ear.

Her crazy scuffle seems to have crystallized Draco’s locution, at least. He speaks firmly and unhesitatingly. Although she can’t look him directly in the eye, Hermione feels his unblinking gaze boring into her like twin nickel drills.

“Hermione Jean Granger – woman, don’t you know that I want you – that I _need_ you, more than I need my next breath? Didn’t you just ruthlessly and succinctly pick apart my pathetic attempts to deny the truth of our relationship? Forgive me my idiotic bumbling; it was simply the result of my astonishment that you could ever feel for me anything like what I feel for you.”

He wets his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “I never imagined that you – that this – would ever be more than a brief, casual diversion for you. A little dalliance with the bad boy; one that you would swiftly move on from with an extra skip in your step and a few steamy memories. I didn’t mean to read your desires when I performed the Legilimency session with you – but Merlin, I could not help myself from taking full advantage of your curiosity and suppressed adventurousness.’

“I’m a selfish arsehole – no, don’t argue, it’s the truth – “ Draco correctly interprets Hermione’s negatory head shake. “But I managed to delude myself that I was perfectly able to keep my feelings for you from creeping into our affair.” He smiles mirthlessly.

“But of course, I couldn’t fucking help myself. You lobbed onto my doorstep like my own personal hurricane, and I was delighted to drown in the glory of you. That first night, when you told me you were thinking about going home?”.

Hermione nods, quivering from the shock of hearing Draco’s frank avowal.

“I bit the inside of my lip hard enough to draw blood, with the effort of not pleading with you to stay. The fact that you came to me willingly – that you seemed to enjoy having sex with me – well, I figured you must find me moderately physically attractive, and I vowed to capitalize on that allure as long as I could. That’s why I told you in the café that we should stick to bed sports alone. I knew you’d never want me to be your true partner, and I couldn’t stomach hearing you say it.”

Draco doesn’t let her interrupt his discourse. “No – I haven’t finished, _ma petite_. You’ll have your chance for rebuttal at the end of the round,” he teases, before his face sobers again.

“Granger, as much as I long to be your boyfriend, or ‘partner, significant other, sweetheart, what-have-you’, as Bonnie said; there are things about me that you don’t know. Things I haven’t had the guts to tell you about… I’m too cowardly to reveal them, even now. I don’t want you to look at me the way you used to, when we were kids – with scorn, and disapprobation, and disappointment. You were perfectly correct to regard me so, and you would be again – if you knew the worst of me. If you knew the depths to which I’ve sunk…”

Draco frowns, mouth twisting bitterly as his eyes bedim with painful memories. Hermione cannot stay silent any longer.

“Malfoy, will you answer some questions, please? To enable me to make that decision for myself? Simple, yes or no queries?” Hermione quietly entreats. She hardly waits for his reluctant nod before she rushes in.

“Have you ever killed another human being?”.

“No.”

“Sexually assaulted anyone?”

“No!”.

“Do you still believe in blood purity?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Have you engaged in any criminal activities since the War ended?”

“No.”

“Do you believe yourself capable of killing another human being?”

A lengthy pause.

“Yes. I would kill to defend you, or my mother.” Draco looks troubled, but resolute. He begins to relinquish his tight hold on her smaller body.

“OK. I accept that. And I accept _you_.” Hermione smiles at the beautiful blond’s thunderstruck expression.

“Malfoy, I know you’re not perfect. Spoiler alert: neither am I. I’m bossy, opinionated, and stubborn as a bull. And you’re controlling, peremptory, and snooty as a deposed prince. Perfect for _me_ , in other words.”

“You – you really mean that?” Draco stammers.

Hermione rolls her eyes and huffs exaggeratedly.

“No – it’s all part of my Master Revenge Plan, of course! Muahahahahaha!”. She vents a little of her relieved anxiety and wild elation by tickling at his ribs through his black dress shirt, giggling as he gasps and protests between tormented breaths.

“Is that – stop this madness – is that part of your – _seriously_ , desist! – your ‘ten-year plan’?” Draco chokes out as Hermione worms her nimble fingers from his hips to his armpits and back again.

“You mock the plan, but guess what? You’re the number one bullet point on it, Mr Malfoy,” Hermione admits with a final twist of her snaking hands. She doesn’t resist as Draco hugs her tight and brings his mouth within a smidge of hers.

“You are my entire plan, Ms Granger,” he affirms gruffly.

Draco’s uncommon granite-grey eyes corroborate his words, as he kisses Hermione with an exquisite, worshipful tenderness. She animatedly responds in kind, cherishing each slow lip-lock as Draco advances and retreats. Her fingers creep to his nape, combing the close-cropped hair there. He spans his long fingers across her partially-exposed back like borrowed wings. The heat and purpose of Draco’s touch rapidly fuel Hermione’s constant craving for him; her moans match his groans as their kisses and strokes intensify.

He breaks away suddenly, much to her chagrin.

“Granger – all those things you said, about what you want from a relationship; about what you want, with me… I want them, too. I want the unqualified right to fuss over you when you’re ill or unhappy, and pet your hair on the couch while we watch ‘Pride and Prejudice’ together, and laugh quietly together over Macdolas’s latest shockingly exorbitant outfit. I want to spoil you rotten with books and chocolates and clothing – “ he stops, noting her little flinch at the last word.

“Do you worry that I give you apparel because I don’t like your own? Never think it – I adore your personal style. Even that disgusting old pink bathrobe is special to me, because _you_ wear it. I’m acting out of a self-serving compulsion to give you physical representations of my feelings for you. Seeing you wearing my scarf or coat helps to settle my raging possessiveness about you. I’m sorry – that’s terribly unenlightened of me.”

Her instantaneous head shake and shy, happy smile ease his perturbed frown.

“Speaking of clothes… I kept the white t-shirt you slept in, from that first night,” Draco looks ashamed. “I couldn’t bring myself to wash it… it smelled like you, even though I’d washed you thoroughly with my soaps and shampoo. I put it under my pillow – I had to quickly toss it under the bed when you returned to seduce me.” He grins briefly at her indignant chuff at his summation of events. “Do you hear me complaining?”.

Sighing in defeat, Hermione motions her hand for him to continue.

Draco asks solemnly, “So now that you know I’m an obsessive, selfish, arrogant arsehole with more skeletons in his closet than bespoke suits – do you still want to take a chance on me, Granger? Truly?”. He looks as though he is about to cast up his accounts, hands twitching as he anticipates her verdict.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“Come have a bath with me… _boyfriend_ ,” Hermione murmurs, voice smoky with exhilaration and desire. She totters upright; her heartbeat rockets as she thinks about the shared intimacies that await them upstairs.

“Lead the way, _girlfriend_ ,” Draco rumbles.

He nibbles on her smooth neck as she tows him close behind her, their hands steadfastly woven.

* * *

“Wait here, please – I want to make sure everything is perfect.” Hermione enjoys the headiness of the small power trip as she firmly pushes Draco back onto his huge bed.

He grumbles, “You were just whimpering in my arms – that’s perfection. Leave the bath for later and let me ‘butter your crumpet’ right now, Granger.”

“Malfoy! You have such a filthy mouth!” Hermione bites her cheeks in a wasted effort to mask her amusement.

“Yeah – and you love it. Come closer and let me put it to better use,” Draco leers. “ _Laisse-moi embrasser ta chatte sucrée toute la nuit, ma petite.”_ He begins to shift off the bed.

“Stop! And you needn’t think I can be so easily seduced into abandoning my plans with your silky ‘Frenchery’… I’m not that weak.”

_Yes, I am._

“Ah – you scorn the power of the ‘Frenchery’? Little lionesses shouldn’t tell naughty lies, you know.”

Hermione flees into the adjoining bathroom before Draco can further erode her resolve. She peeps around the door for one final admonition.

“Stay here until I call you in,” and she slams it closed.

Five minutes later, the navy-tiled bathroom is as ready as Hermione can make it. A hasty rummage in her trusty little bag had miraculously unearthed half a dozen mismatched, semi-burnt candles left over from her time camping rough while hunting Horcruxes. She has magically lit and affixed them to float high enough in the room to hopefully disguise their inconsistent conditions, and minimize the risk of setting fire to Draco’s platinum locks.

 _I want to make him burn – but not quite that literally_ , Hermione smirks.

The huge white claw-foot tub is half-full of steaming hot water, bubbled and perfumed with Malfoy’s top-of-the-line expensive body wash. Hermione takes another appreciative sniff as she carefully unzips the back of her pretty dress. Draco had already drawn down half of its teeth during his concerted ravishment efforts in the bedroom. She folds it carefully and places it atop the wide vanity.

Which leaves her in the matched set of amaranth pink lingerie that Luna had helped pick out earlier today. Satin high-cut knickers and a strapless bra that barely covers her nipples. Luna had insisted on the purchase.

“Draco’s brain will fritz as soon as he sees these on you, Hermione. He might even tear them off – but he’d replace them with two or three more sets, I’m sure,” her Ravenclaw buddy had nodded sagely. “Really, it’s an investment in your lingerie wardrobe, if you take that factor into consideration.”

_Well, it’s time to put Luna’s unique logic to the test._

Hermione throws back her bare shoulders and fully opens the door, pipping a little surprised note at Draco looming right in front of her… as naked as the day he was born. He clutches the top of the door jamb for apparent support as his hungry eyes devour her from head to toe.

“ _Baise_ … _moi_ …”

Unsure if that was a curse or a plea, Hermione steps to the side as he hurtles through the doorway. Draco growls in frustration.

“Granger, you’re unacceptably overdressed for this party,” he prowls closer with lascivious intent. Hermione evades his grasping hands by shuffling around the free-standing bathtub. It’s a wonder she hasn’t banged herself against it; she is having trouble focusing on anything other than Draco’s glorious nudity. His rigid phallus is pointing at her like a giant accusing finger, and each stalking step accentuates his powerfully muscular physique. The ‘Adonis belt’ of his transversus abdominis is nothing short of sensational, and the flickering candlelight seems to lovingly caress his strong, supple, marble-skinned form.

Much as she appreciates how damned _fine_ Draco looks in his tailored suits or the more casual denims and sweaters – Hermione decides that keeping Draco clothed is a spectacular waste of his physical assets. Her core clenches and dampens as she anticipates having his formidable girth inside her willing body. Her erotic musings stall as Draco clamps his wide hands down on her hips and tugs her against his front.

“Take these off – now,” he skilfully undoes the hooks on the back of the bra before sliding her glossy, lust-soaked knickers down to her knees, his hot hands inciting spot-flares with every stroked inch of her skin. Draco’s big stiff member presses into her silken stomach as he latches his lips and teeth onto her neck, sucking hard. Hermione’s head lolls forward of its own accord, overcome by divine sensation.

Continuing to lick and suck mercilessly, Draco lips his way down her body, the better to properly divest her of the scrimpy bra and panties. He places a sole teasing kiss on the skin just above her pubis before lifting each of her feet in turn to step her out of the last garment. He sweeps his arms behind her trembly knees and lowers her into the hot water.

Hermione watches in bemusement as Draco opens one of the vanity cupboards and withdraws a small tissue-wrapped item. He unceremoniously rips off the thin paper to reveal an oblong cake of soap, before pacing back to kneel beside the tub.

“But there’s already soap in the dish…” Hermione feels compelled to point out.

Draco shakes her off as he dips the bar in the water and begins to glide it over her feet.

“This soap is for you – it’s a combination of rose, bergamot and vanilla that I – I thought you might like better.” He purses his lips, concentrating on soaping up every inch of her skin.

“You imported customized soap for me?” Hermione breathes in amazement. “Pinch me, please – I must be dreaming you right now.”

Shrugging, Draco obliges, lightly pincering the back of her calf.

He chuckles at her squeaked “Hey!”. Hermione settles back and tips her head against the high rim of the old-fashioned tub, feeling like a decadent princess as Draco diligently bathes her. Her legs fall open in avid invitation, as the aromatic soap slides closer to her yearning sex.

Of course, the sly bastard ignores her blatant appeal and winds the bar around her hips instead.

“Malfoy!” she whines, not repenting her neediness one whit. “You missed a very important spot, you devil.”

“Indeed? Let me rectify my grave error,” Draco switches the soap to his right hand, unerringly finding her aching slit with his left. He pushes his thumb inside her pink folds as his middle finger slowly breaches her entrance. “Is this better?”.

Hermione is incapable of speech as Draco pushes his finger in and out, adding a second digit as she nods jerkily. His slate eyes are aglitter as he watches her every shallow breath and blissful reaction. The bar of expensive soap resumes its upward journey, lovingly swirling around her breasts. Draco’s coordination is frankly impressive, as he somehow manages to maintain his steady digital thrusts inside her slick channel, while his other hand brushes soap across her nipples. He teases them into hard rosettes with his fingertips as she moans.

“Malfoy – I want to come with your cock deep inside me,” Hermione begs, threshing and churning the water as she pulls at his shoulders to encourage him to join her. “Let me ride you? Please?”.

Dropping the soap onto the indented shelf beside her head, Draco carefully disengages from her body, lifting her up and forward as he vaults over the side to sit behind her. He swivels her to face him, gently repositioning her to kneel between his legs.

“Put your legs on either side of mine as I draw them together, OK? Guide me into you, and use your other hand to grab the side for support. Lower yourself down when you’re ready. I’ll hold you steady – trust me,” Draco instructs in a passion-roughened rumble.

Nodding mutely, Hermione follows Draco’s directions, her lips quirking up as she finds his bulging stem beneath the foamy surface of the bath water. She rubs a questing thumb over the sensitive mushroom tip as Draco hisses.

“Granger, you wicked little witch – I am in danger of prematurely cracking my marbles if you keep that up,” he warns as she grins. His strong hands support her hips as Hermione steers his portentous, thick cock between her spread legs.

She sinks down slowly, her sheath stretching to accept his girth as Draco keens at the tight fit. She forges on, the pinching pain morphing to pleasure as his bell-end pops past her entrance. Controlling his plunge inside, she gasps as she buries his length to the hilt. They both freeze, panting. Draco squeezes his eyes tightly closed; his lips move in a silent count.

Hermione stares intently at Draco, marvelling at the sensations he arouses in her… every single time. Tonight feels especially incredible – is it that the last barrier of denial and obfuscation blocking their relationship has been removed at last? Is it her joy, and pride, in finally being acknowledged as his girlfriend?

 _Whatever it is, I am going to savour the memory of this night for the rest of my life_ , Hermione thinks rhapsodically. She starts to rock, smiling down cheekily as Draco’s eyes fly open.

“You falling asleep there, Malfoy?”

He thrusts up into her in reply, using his superior strength to lift her body up and down. Water sloshes over the lip of the bathtub as she fervently matches his rhythmic movements. Draco grunts as she sighs in pleasure. Hermione adjusts her grip on the tub’s sides to lean forward a little, until Draco’s formidable shaft rubs the front wall of her sex just so; the shift increases the delicious pressure of his pubic bone against her clitoris. She grinds harder, adding a little circular twist on the end of every downward bump.

“Granger – you are amazing – pound me, come all over me – _ta chatte est si chaude et serrée, ma petite_ ,” Draco rasps. “Don’t stop.”

 _Not a chance in hell of that!_ Hermione slams her body down harder as Draco’s left hand snakes up to tweak her nipples in turn. The added pleasure/pain sensation spurs her pace to frantic as she chases her zenith. She mewls as Draco repeats the stimulating tugs on her breast buds.

Judging by his wild graphite eyes and harsh breaths, Draco is rapidly losing his cultured control. Hermione’s skin feels aflame, sweat from the hot water and their energetic exertions pooling at the hollow of her fluttering throat and doubtlessly ruining her braided up-do. She can feel her peak screaming towards her, a runaway train of euphoric sensation.

Pumping her hips, Hermione catches her wide brown eyes with Draco’s blown pupils. “Malfoy, I’m gonna – I’m gonna come! Oh ohhh _ohhhhh_ … I’m COMING!”

She screams the last syllable as Draco grits his jaw and thrusts in a last furious frenzy, propelling her through the seemingly-endless cataclysmic orgasm; Hermione slumps against his torso in a boneless heap, feeling him convulsing deep inside her. Her pulsing channel squeezes every last drop of ejaculate from his tumid penis as Draco vocalizes something between a roar and a groan of carnal release.

Hermione clings limply to Draco as he buries his hot face in her bosom, peppering kisses to her elation-doused skin. His elegant fingers skim across her back, occasionally cupping and dispersing handfuls of warm water.

“Is it just me, or did we die a little and were sublimely reborn?” Hermione meditates, when she is able to fashion a lucid sentence again.

Draco widens his legs and pulls her down to his eye level. “Definitely a joint mortality experience,” he agrees, eyes crinkling as he smiles unguardedly into her flushed face. “You might need to remind me of my name – the top of my head clean blew off, I think.”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “It’s Draco… _my_ Draco.” She brings a tremulous hand to rest against his cheek; he shivers at her light touch.

Draco mirrors her gesture. “And you’re Hermione… my… _my_ Hermione.” His Adam’s apple bobs crazily as he gulps out the words.

_Yes. Yes, I am._

She meets his seeking mouth in a fierce, exquisite, exultant kiss.

_I am yours, Draco Lucius Malfoy._

* * *

French translations:

 _Mon trésor_ – My treasure.

 _Laisse-moi embrasser ta chatte sucrée toute la nuit, ma petite_ \- Let me kiss your sweet pussy all night long, my little one.

 _Baise moi_ – Fuck me.

 _Ta chatte est si chaude et serrée, ma petite_ – Your pussy is so hot and tight.


	28. Confluence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @ItsReyCobain.  
> Thank you so much for your dedicated readership, unflagging support, and beautiful reviews.  
> Best wishes for your next round of finals.

__

_Sunday 09 March 2003: AM_

“Hermione?” Draco rubs his nose against the darling curve of her bare neck, speaking into her satiny skin as she sleepily purrs and presses a soft kiss to his upper left arm; the limb is tucked underneath her coppery head as they spoon beneath the snow white duvet. He is bound to have ‘dead-arm’ again on the morrow, but it’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.

 _My **girlfriend** , Hermione Jean Granger … in my arms… in my bed… I’d sacrifice a thousand nights to have this one_, Draco ruminates. Even just having the freedom to speak her Christian name aloud feels like an extraordinary blessing. _Her-My-O-Nee_. ‘Hɜːˈmaɪəni’.

He smiles ruefully in the lightless bedroom, remembering his juvenile obsession with repetitively scripting the phonetic spelling of her name in painstakingly crafted calligraphy. Complete with elaborate illustrations, drawn from the memory of sly sideways glances and his pretence of narrowed, contemptuous regard of the brunette spitfire. His idiotic reasoning had been that the exotic phonetic letters would be unrecognizable to anyone but himself, especially in the ornate lettering.

Draco’s smile fades as he remembers burning his precious pekoe-brown leather journal when he’d realized that its discovery would immediately endanger Hermione; he’d consigned it to the flames the moment he’d known that Voldemort’s return was a certainty. And obliterated his desire for the witch from his psyche, working harder than he’d ever done to minimize the risk of The Dark Lord or that bitch Bellatrix from knowing what the little Gryffindor meant to him.

The Brightest Witch of Her Age now mumbles, “Draco? You were going to ask me something?”. Hermione lazily pulls him closer, relaxing the unconscious tension in his muscles caused by the harsh recollection of his teenage follies. Her little hand massages his sculpted lateral thigh, curving around his kneecap before repeating the motion. The affectionate touch feels heavenly; Draco has trouble remembering his original question.

_Oh. Right._

“Mmmm… _ma petite_ , what is ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’? And why would we attend a midnight screening?” he repeats Hermione’s words from last night’s lounge room confessional.

She chuckles serenely. “Oh, it’s a cult movie from the 70s: it’s about this wholesome young couple who are forced to take shelter in the Gothic castle of a transvestite scientist – that’s Frank-N-Furter – and all his strange companions… It’s a musical, and has all these weird characters, like Riff Raff and Magenta, and it’s funny and weird and progressive, with all these layered themes about the fluidity of gender and sexuality, and love. Anyway, it’s a thing for fans to go to midnight screenings and dress up like the characters and sing along.“

“Sounds like something Zabini would enjoy,” Draco observes. “Speaking of which, I have to tell that pompous pecker-head he’d best give up trying to force me to be Astoria Greengrass’s date for the Spring Equinox Ball. I refuse to attend with anyone other than my beautiful girlfriend.” He bites gently on her ear lobe as Hermione squirms and sighs.

“’Aye, an’ ye’ve kissed the Blarney Stone’, Mr Malfoy… not that I’m objecting to your shameless flattery,” she teases. “But what will you tell Blaise? You said you’d given him your word?”

“Hell, I’ll pay some poor fool to withstand an evening with the acidic Astoria if need be,” Draco decrees. “That is… if you still wish to allow me the pleasure of escorting you there?” he trails his right hand down her naked hip and places his fingertips tantalisingly close to the underside of her unfettered breasts. Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, subtly wiggling her derrière closer to the warm man behind her.

“Well… you didn’t technically answer me… maybe I should consider inviting a different wizard, then? Perhaps another Slytherin gentleman?”. She squeals as he tightens his hold and growls viciously into her ear.

“Don’t you bloody dare, you saucy little minx! I’d hex off his bollocks, in any case. I mean it, Granger. Besides, you haven’t _technically_ asked me,” Draco highlights the loophole, nuzzling into her neck whilst keeping her a willing captive in his bracketed hold.

“Hmmm – good point. So that gives me some time to look elsewhere…” Hermione shrieks with laughter and pretend panic as Draco snarls menacingly and bites down on her neck, champing little nips up and down it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Have mercy! Malfoy, would you be my date for the Ball, please?”

She shakes with laughter, snickers subsiding as Draco ceases his nibbling to reply, “I would be honoured, Granger. I’m sorry – I never dreamed you’d be prepared to acknowledge me – to acknowledge us – in public. I still can’t believe it… are you sure this is what you want? I shan’t be offended if it’s too soon, for you.”

Hermione vigorously negates the suggestion with a toss of her freed curls. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I had the slightest qualm about claiming you as mine… Draco.”

It is her turn to beam into the darkness as Draco roughly whispers, “I don’t deserve you… but you’re mine too… Hermione.” She turns her head slightly to allow their lips to sweetly meet. Their smooch is short-lived as a thought zings into her head.

“Do you think that Blaise pushed you into accepting his proposition to force you to acknowledge your feelings for me? It seems odd that he didn’t first ask Theo to supply the favour, doesn’t it? They seem close,” Hermione speculates.

“I wouldn’t put it past Zabini – he’s a cunning snake,” Draco concurs. “But it didn’t work out quite like that, did it? I blundered about hopelessly – you were the one to take the bull by the horns. My smart, brave, amazing little Gryffindor,” he breathes admiringly.

“One of us had to move forward – and as usual, I beat you for the top spot,” Hermione smugly reminds him, her words a little slurred as she smiles in quiet triumph. Draco briefly tickles her soft belly in retaliation for the cheeky comment, his fingers preferring to stroke carefully along her curvy hips and tummy.

Touching Hermione never fails to excite him; he feels like a randy, scheming teenager all the bloody time – simply desperate for her. They’ve already made love thrice tonight: the taxicab, the bathtub, and the wondrous, slow joining Draco had initiated after lifting his woman out of the bath, drying her gently before unpicking her complicated braid and combing out her curls with a soft hairbrush. He’d spoken just once, to ask Hermione if she wanted him to continue his ministrations.

To his joy, she’d nodded swiftly, her prismatic brown eyes sparkling as she’d looked at him with undisguised desire, trust, and tenderness. Draco had wasted little time in worshipping her with his mouth and hands, carrying Hermione the short distance into the bedroom and laying her down on a dry towel, atop the bed. He’d kissed and caressed every scintilla of her lissome body, starting with her cute little toes and finishing with her smooth brow.

Learning her like this – without the fear that she would see his adoration and run screaming – had loosed a restraint he’d not realized was constricting him.

 _Hiding my innermost self from the world has become second-nature_ , Draco had reflected as he’d gazed hungrily at Hermione’s beautiful, guileless face. Always shielding, hiding, denying… yearning and lonely.

 _Enough with the sad thoughts. Tonight is a celebration_. He’d decisively pushed aside his melancholy and applied himself to showing his enchanting witch the fathomless depths of his feelings for her… even if he can’t quite articulate them yet.

Hermione had silently urged Draco to lie down beside her, no longer content to be a passive recipient of his nuzzling coddles and reverent strokes. Braced above her, Draco had rejoiced in her long, sure passes along his shoulders, spine, and buttocks as she’d pushed him into closer contact with her warm flesh. He’d shaken uncontrollably: not from the strain of propped elbows to keep his weight from crushing her slim form, but due to his continuing disbelief that she accepted him, wanted him, _needed_ him.

Impatient, Hermione had spread wide her hips and nudged her damp mons against him, whimpering in encouragement and raw need, always gazing up into his wide pewter eyes. Draco had slid inside her tight heat agonizingly slowly, tormenting them both with his deliberately incremental advance.

With each small push, he’d bent to kiss her plump, panting mouth, darting his tongue to mimic the motion of his rock-solid shaft. He’d ignored the electrifying impetus for release, concentrating on making this extraordinary moment last.

The very air around them had appeared charged with strange, glimmering particles; Draco had paused his unhurried thrusts as the epiphany crashed into him. This phenomenal shower of light was their magical cores, twining and pulsing, emanating tiny pinpricks of sparked energy. Hermione’s honey-brown eyes had reflected his awe as the minute molecules merged and divided and re-formed in a fantastical, joyous dance.

Her little touch at his face had prompted Draco to move again, every slow thrust infusing his mind and body with the magical power that surrounded them. Images crashed and flowed throughout his consciousness, the present and the past shifting into the potentialities of a future together. He didn’t feel the salty droplets run down his cheek, but he saw Hermione’s mirroring tears roll gently into her hairline as she’d joyfully smiled.

They had crested their peaks simultaneously, the added element of their mated magical essences turning ‘le petit mort’ into a white-hot, exhilarating rebirth. Draco had felt the surge of transcendental energy in every cell of his being as he’d clung desperately to Hermione’s similarly-transubstantiating body.

Time had passed, unmeasured; somehow, Draco had dredged up enough nous to shift them onto their sides and beneath the flipped bedding. He’d kissed closed Hermione’s wet eyes, arranging her as the little spoon before he’d fumbled to turn off the lamp. Their mystical centres had softly uncoupled, fading back into their individual forms until only faint flecks lingered in the darkened bedroom.

Hermione had fallen asleep immediately; Draco had smiled into her fluffy hair as she’d emitted a few snuffly snores before tumbling deeper into slumber. He’d stubbornly stayed awake for as long as he could, wanting to immovably affix every detail of the experience into his memory.

Now, he shifts his hands to hug her tightly; as much as he longs to make love to her again, she has barely caught a few hours of rest. Draco is used to insomnia, but he refuses to deplete Hermione’s well-being with incessant ravishment.

“Go back to sleep, _ma petite_. We will talk more in the morning. No, don’t jiggle against me like that – I won’t be swayed. You’re still exhausted. _Sois une bonne petite lionne, mon cœur_.” He grins at her sleepy grumbles. She murmurs a final question before her eyes close again.

“Draco… have you ever felt that before? That… magical synthesis? I haven’t… I thought it was a myth.”

“Never, Hermione. Only with you.” He rests his chin into the crook of her bowed neck and shuts his own eyes.

_It will always be… only you._

* * *

Tearing herself away from creeper-staring at the gorgeous sleeping blond wizard in the big white bed ( _my boyfriend!_ ) Hermione snaffles his discarded expensive black shirt from last night and pushes her arms through the sleeves. She flips up the cuffs a few times; of course Mr Fancy Pants Malfoy uses cufflinks instead of buttons for his finery. Buttoning it up, she spares a quick look in the mirror. Perhaps black isn’t her colour, but she loves wearing his clothes, especially when they still smell like him.

 _I’m just a domestic tabby rolling in Draco’s catnip_ , Hermione decides. _And I couldn’t be happier_.

Quietly closing the bedroom door behind her, she patters downstairs, keen to start some coffee to hopefully blow away the cobwebs. Halfway through the action of shovelling fresh grounds into the French press, Hermione pauses as the enormity of last night’s confessions, revelations and decisions swamp her cognizance. And of course – the miracle of their magical conjugation…

She is lost to the wonder of the recollection until the kettle adamantly shrills behind her.

 _Yes. Coffee first, navel-gazing later._ Pouring herself a mug of redolent caffeine, she doctors it with sugar and milk before carrying it into the living room. The polished wooden floorboards are cold against her bare feet, making her wish she’d hunted out a pair of Draco’s socks. Rubbing her chilled tootsies against the woven rug, her attention is drawn to a small moving photograph half-obscured behind some untidily stacked books on a lower shelf of the big ‘library wall’.

Curious, Hermione squats to retrieve it, bringing it back to the three-seater lounge and placing her coffee mug atop the table. She sits with her knees beneath her and arranges a (doubtlessly hideously costly) saxe blue cashmere throw across her lap, before picking up the framed picture again.

It shows a pre-pubescent Draco on the left, resplendent in his green and black Slytherin Quidditch uniform as he smiles unreservedly at the camera. Beside him stands Narcissa Malfoy, as tall and slim and fastidiously upright as a silver birch. Her smile is less effusive, but unmistakably proud and bright as she looks down at her blond son. Something about the way the snapshot is framed puzzles Hermione; she eventually realizes that it is off-centre because another person has been chopped out of the frame post-production. The only hint of that is a sliver of differently textured black material on Draco’s left.

This must have been taken during Second Year, when Lucius Malfoy had purchased new Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin side. Hermione cringes as she recollects hotly accusing Draco of buying his way onto the team. Her nasty snipe had been provoked by Draco’s snobbish sledging, but her insult had still been unjust and inaccurate. Possibly her unwillingly attracted reaction to seeing him looking unfairly handsome (even with that Lucius-esque slicked-back coiffure) in the athletic uniform had spurred her into shrewishness. 

Her musings are interrupted by Draco’s urbane tones as he pads into the room, splendidly bare-chested, his flaxen locks adorably sleep-rumpled. “What do you have there, Granger? More weighty tomes?”. He falls silent as he stops at her knee and sees the photograph in her hands.

“I must have forgotten to move that back when I was hunting for a book the other day,” he frowns. “Here – I’ll return it now.” He holds out a pale hand for the frame.

“I haven’t finished looking at it,” Hermione counters. “You were almost adorable – for an arrogant little so-and-so,” she baits him with a smirk.

“Bah! I was a twerp. Come, hand it over.” She clutches it to her breast as Draco tries to gently prise it loose.

“Why did you cut out your father from the picture?” Hermione guesses, as Draco stills.

He shrugs carelessly. “Because he’s an arsehole? Shortly after that photograph was taken, he warned me that I’d best catch the Golden Snitch in my first match, or risk his wrath and the likely cessation of my quarterly allowance.” Draco laughs cheerlessly at Hermione’s stricken reaction.

“Don’t worry, I’m well over that little jab now,” he assures her. This time when he stretches for the snapshot, Hermione cedes the object. Draco shoves it back behind the stack and rearranges the books to cover it. He strolls back to the couch, snugging in beside her and wrapping his right arm around her shoulder as his left grabs her mug of java and raises it to take a cheeky gulp.

“I left you plenty in the plunger!” Hermione complains, as he places it back on the coffee table. Draco ignores her protest, his eyes compulsively roving over her.

“That shirt looks better on you than it ever did me… but you’ve done up too many buttons –“ and he slips free the top two before she can stop his nimble fingers.

“Much better.” Hermione huffs as Draco tries to peer down her shadowed cleavage, now partially exposed by the gaping neckline.

“Cut it out, you pervert,” she is stymied in her attempts to re-button the shirt as Draco easily drags her to sit atop him.

“That’s not what you said last night,” he remarks, rubbing his big hands onto the small of her back beneath the loose shirt and running his thumbs beneath the waistband of the amaranth panties. “I’m happy to refresh your memory, though…?”.

Draco presses his back to the arm of the sofa, nestling Hermione more securely into his embrace as he kisses her hungrily. He tastes like rich coffee and his own unique, earthy flavour; she wedges her knees into the padded sofa cushions as she eagerly responds, nipping aggressively at his pliant mouth. Her arms are braced on his pectorals as she bumps suggestively into his boxer-short clad groin. He is already rock-hard and thrusts up slightly as she shifts down. The forgotten cashmere throw bunches around her hips and his legs as he digs in his heels for better purchase.

Their combined moans and coos are rudely interrupted by the sound of the Floo actuating.

Hermione doesn’t notice it (lost as she is to blossoming passion), until a cool feminine voice announces, “Good morning, Draco. And Miss Granger.”

Looking up at her in horror, Draco pushes aside the curtain of her sienna curls, face frozen as he turns his head to confirm the identity of his unexpected visitor.

“Hello, Mother,” he sputters faintly.

 _Mother! NONONONONO!_ Without conscious thought, Hermione hurls herself to the left and springs over the side of the low-backed lounge, tumbling face-first to the floor with a muted “oof”. Had the circumstances not been mortifyingly humiliating (dry-humping her newly-acknowledged boyfriend as his patrician mother watches is not her idea of an appropriate introduction), Hermione might have been impressed by her panicked athleticism. She briefly contemplates trying to wedge herself beneath the couch, but Draco is already running his concerned hands along her jumbled limbs.

“Granger – what were you thinking? Are you alright?” He gathers her into a quick, crouched hug before helping her rise to her feet. “She doesn’t bite, you know,” he whispers into her tingling ear. “Just be your lovely self – it will be fine.”

 _Fine. Ha. Unlikely_. Hermione hopes her face and neck are not quite as flame-red as they feel as Draco hooks her arm through his and turns them to face Narcissa. His mother is regarding them with a look as coolly imperturbable as Draco’s fall-back expression; but Hermione takes some heart from the twinkle in Narcissa’s azure eyes. She doesn’t appear shocked or surprised, which is… peculiar?

“Mother, may I introduce my girlfriend, Ms Hermione Granger,” Draco enunciates, his aloof features at odds with the jubilant pride in his voice. He releases her arm to place a comforting hand at the small of her back.

Hermione smiles weakly, bolstered by Draco’s support (both physical and emotional).

“Good morning, Lady Malfoy.” _Should I bow? I’m not wearing a skirt. Or pants. Maybe not. Why would I bow, anyway? Don’t be a chump._ She settles for a jerky nod.

Narcissa extends her flawlessly-manicured right hand. “Please, call me Narcissa. It’s a pleasure to meet you _at last_ , Ms Granger.” She casts a disapproving look at a gawking Draco as she emphasizes the qualifying words.

Stunned, Hermione shakes the proffered hand and mumbles something incoherently agreeable.

 _What the actual fudge?_ Stifling a gasp, she remembers that her shirt is still precariously buttoned, thanks to Draco’s sly fingers. Stealthily, she glides her hands to the topmost fastenings and clumsily shoves the small discs through the eyelets.

“Mother – what are you doing here? Has Macdolas been shooting off his big mouth again?” Draco asks crossly, folding his arms rigidly as he glares at his parent.

“Lovely to see you too, son,” Narcissa dryly retorts. “Do cease accusing our beleaguered elf of various misdemeanours – I’ve dropped in to invite you both to brunch, at the Manor.” She turns to Hermione as Draco gawks.

“We’ll eat in the conservatory, Miss Granger; it’s quite lovely, despite the chill of early spring. And it’s situated in the gardens, with a delightful view of the countryside.”

“Hermione – it’s Hermione,” the baffled young witch blurts. She isn’t too bewildered not to understand the subtle message Narcissa is sending, i.e.: the conservatory isn’t attached to the mansion, and therefore is less likely to trigger Hermione’s painful memories of the trauma she suffered within the Gothic abode.

“Hermione – such an unusual, strong name. Thank you.” Narcissa offers a proper smile instead of her previous tight-lipped one.

“How did you know that we would both be here? For that matter, how did you know I am seeing Hermione?” Draco recovers to bark the queries at his mother.

“Draco, do apportion me some credit. I knew that you were hiding something – or rather, _someone_ – important from me. After you cancelled your attendance at our Friday night dinner, I sent Ruibby out to the ballet last night, to confirm my suspicions. You’re not the only one capable of subterfuge, my dear.” Narcissa looks terribly pleased with her cunning.

“My own mother… spying on me… “ Draco mutters bitterly. Narcissa ignores his sulking comment.

“Shall we say, an hour?” Not waiting for an actual response, Narcissa firmly claps her hands together. “Excellent. And there’s no need to dress up – just wear something that you feel comfortable in, Hermione.” She pauses. “Although perhaps something other than Draco’s dress shirt might be better suited to the climate.”

The blue-blooded matriarch steps back into the Floo, flicking her wrist at Draco in an imperious wave. “Close your mouth, Draco – and don’t be late. Oh, bring Macdolas, please – Ruibby has been rather snaky during his absence. We’ll see the pair of them matched yet.” Smiling, she exits as swiftly and gracefully as she’d entered.

Hermione backs up on shaky legs to plunk down onto the couch, covering her fiery face with her hands. “Please tell me that didn’t happen,” she breathes quietly.

Draco flops down beside her, combing her tousled ringlets from her face. “Which part? The part where my mother caught us heavily petting, or the bit where she commanded us to visit for brunch?”.

“All of it,” Hermione moans. _Is it possible to die of embarrassment? Let it at least be swift._

“Don’t fash yourself, Granger – Mother means well. I hope,” Draco says the last phrase under his breath as he rubs her back. “Look at it this way – it’s a free meal? Guaranteed to be delicious, I might add,” he smiles at her with such pure tenderness that Hermione actually feels her erratic heart jump a beat.

“I’ll protect you – not that you’ll need it – and if you feel uncomfortable in the slightest degree, we will leave immediately. Deal?” Draco encourages. Hermione removes her hands from her blush-pink visage and slowly nods.

“Great – let me just summon our midget major-domo to bring you some fresh clothes, then we’ll duck upstairs for a quick shower and get ready. Of course, there’s a water shortage, so you’d best bathe with me,” he advises soberly.

“Nice try – as if I want to risk being late to meet your mother after our recent amorous debacle,” Hermione scoffs. “And she’s correct – you _are_ quick to pick on Mac. He’s a sweetheart, you know.”

“Pfft. More like an impertinent, lippy little scallywag,” Draco rebuts. “And we’ve buried the hatchet already, so don’t fret. I protected him from the ‘tiger cat’ the other day, and Macdolas has finally agreed to desist competing with me for your attentions.”

Hermione shoots to her feet. “That reminds me! Luna invited me to have supper with her and Hagrid at his hut this evening… she asked me to invite you too, actually,” she nervously adds. “I asked for her help with my outfit yesterday; and for advice regarding my plan of attack in solidifying my position as your girlfriend.”

Draco grins, standing to weave his fingers through hers. “So I have Luna to thank for your sensational dress… and the provocative lingerie? She should shop with you more often, _ma petite_.” He drops a kiss to the tip of her nose.

“I didn’t think you’d even noticed, given the speed with which you stripped them off,” Hermione grouches. She worries her top teeth at her bottom lip. “But what about tonight?”

“Oh, I noticed them alright,” Draco replies with a wink. “Tonight’s supper sounds good – but are you certain that Hagrid is OK with me being there? I doubt he’ll take the news well.” Now it is Draco’s turn to look troubled.

“Trust me, Malfoy: Luna knows exactly what she is doing. Look at how cleverly she pushed us into declaring our honest feelings to one other. She wouldn’t have asked us if she hadn’t been assured of Hagrid’s acceptance.”

“Yes – I owe Luna my eternal gratitude for metaphorically banging our heads together,” Draco avows. “I think she operates on a higher, vastly more evolved plane of existence than the rest of us mere mortals.”

“I agree. It infuriates me, thinking of how poorly she was treated – _bullied_ – at Hogwarts. She’s been such a marvellous friend to me… especially after Ginny… wasn’t.” Hermione discloses regretfully.

Draco opens his mouth to ask her to elaborate, but a loud tapping on the window startles them into silence. Hermione scampers to the aperture as Draco recoils in alarm.

“Salazar’s schnozz! Is that an owl or a harpy?” he hurries after her as she wiggles the sash.

“She’s Thalassa – Harry’s Eurasian eagle-owl,” Hermione explains, puffing in frustration as the heavy window doesn’t budge.

“Mind your fingers – I’ve got it,” Draco easily lifts the window, prudently stepping to the side as the huge mottled bird barely fits through the opening. Her flexible neck swivels as she alights on Hermione’s outstretched arm and regally extends the letter clamped in her beak in Draco’s direction. He gingerly accepts it, wincing as Thalassa’s sharp talons carefully encircle Hermione’s limb.

“Careful of my lady’s arm… and my good shirt, please...” He trails off as Thalassa’s intelligent fire-orange eyes stare straight at him. Her distinctive ear tufts swivel at his words.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Hermione exclaims. “Look at the variation of colour along her barred wings and tail!”. Thalassa cocks her head to accept Hermione’s affectionate scratch. “Now, why is Harry owling you, I wonder?”.

Draco slices open the red wax seal with his index finger, reading the message aloud:

‘Malfoy – I need you and Hermione to meet me at the Ministry at eight o’clock sharp Monday morning.

I have information and questions pertaining to Operation Acromantula – don’t be late.

Tell Hermione not to get snitty about not being sent her own letter; I knew exactly where to find her.

Give her a (platonic) kiss for me. Potter.’

“Smart arse. And his handwriting is utterly atrocious,” the blond wizard grouches as he refolds the parchment. “Will this be the last of the infernal interruptions?”.

“You’re a grumpy cuss sometimes, Malfoy – but you’re still rather foxy,” Hermione razzes smilingly. The giant owl perched on her arm barks a deep “oohu-oohu-oohu” as Draco moves closer.

“I’d kiss you for that, Granger – but your avian friend might not approve,” he sighs. “Let me get an owl treat – or perhaps half a dozen – for her, then we’ll get moving, hmm?”. He gives the stern owl a wide berth but manages to affectionately pat Hermione’s bum as he moves toward the kitchen.

She watches him go, flooded anew with amazement that she is standing in Draco Malfoy’s home; wearing his shirt; preparing to have brunch with his notoriously highborn mother… after he’d proudly acknowledged her as his girlfriend.

Thalassa vocalizes a single hoot, ruffles her feathers, and shakes her tawny head.

_Yeah. What she said._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation:  
> Sois une bonne petite lionne, mon cœur - Be a good little lioness, sweetheart.


	29. Propriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is still reading this story; your interest and support means so much.

__

_Sunday 09 March 2003: AM_

“Macdolas – your ruddy hat looks perfectly fine! If you don’t stop fussing you’ll be left behind,” Draco’s exasperation with the vain little coxcomb is edging into aggravation.

“Ignore Draco, Mac – he doesn’t understand the intricacies of getting the tricorn exactly right, does he? You look perfectly darling,” Hermione soothes as the manservant bridles.

“Darling, my arse,” Draco grouses, pretending not to notice Hermione’s sparking chocolate eyes and pursed lips. “I absolutely refuse to allow that idiotic sabre scabbard – where did you even source that? You’ll slice off one of our fingers in transit! I suppose I should be glad you didn’t order a loaded flintlock musket as well.” He snatches the contentious sword and tosses it into the corner of Hermione’s lounge room with a discordant clatter.

Macdolas fiddles one more time at the gold frogging on his replica British Redcoat soldier’s outfit, wide mouth sulky. “Master Malfoy does not care about authenticity of attire, but Macdolas is ready, sir,” he stiffly concedes. He clicks together his knee-high black leather boots to emphasize his statement.

 _Fucking_ **_finally_**. Draco thinks better of vocalizing the thought as Hermione’s glare grows fiercer. He settles for rolling his eyes and firmly clasping her right hand in his left, while Macdolas holds her other. “We’re Apparating to my usual spot inside the gates of the Manor. Ready?”. At their nods, he closes his eyes and fixes the familiar location in his mind.

Opening them moments later, Draco steadies his witch as she wobbles slightly, bestowing a quick kiss on the crown of her tamed russet hair. “Alright, Granger?”.

Hermione smiles and takes a deep breath. Worry brews anew in his mind. He’d stupidly forgotten to ensure that Lucius won’t be attending the brunch… surely his mother is smart enough to know not to include him? He resolves to simply Disapparate them, should his father be anywhere nearby.

The day is clear, with just the faintest veil of high scudding clouds. The Manor is bathed in pale sunlight, lending it a friendlier air despite its dark Gothic majesty. Draco lightly squeezes Hermione’s small hand, taking a moment to admire the pretty picture she presents in her pink and white floral maxi-dress. Tiny buttons run down the bodice below a v-neckline and puffed sleeves that are ruched just above her elbows. She wears a soft damask open cardigan and his old black peacoat, a modest gold oval locket dipping past the hollow of her throat. Her ochre curls are drawn back in a low ponytail above her nape.

Shaking off his own nerves, Draco smiles down into her apprehensive face. “This way, Granger. The conservatory is to the rear.” Macdolas marches beside them, still fidgeting at his apparel.

“Macdolas – what do you intend to say to Ruibby today? Have you taken our Friday discussion into account?” Draco queries.

The house elf nods vigorously. “After brunch is served, Macdolas respectfully asks Ruibby to take a turn with him about the rose garden, for the purposes of refreshing exercise and polite conversation. He comments on the agreeable weather and enquires after the good health of her family,” he recites, ticking off the salient points on his knobbly fingers. “Macdolas may offer the lady his arm but keeps a proper distance in accordance with respectful rules of etiquette.”

Hermione cocks her head. “Mac, have you been watching the ‘Pride and Prejudice’ videos whilst I’ve been at work?”. Her tone is benevolently amused.

Macdolas halts his steady tramping, his seedling-green orbs anxious. “Master Malfoy tells Macdolas that Grace Lady Granger doesn’t mind and encourages the practice – does Macdolas overstep? Oh! The disgrace he brings!”.

Draco thwarts the self-punishing forehead slap with a quick seizure of Macdolas’s thin wrist. “Enough of that – I haven’t watched you twiddle that ludicrous hat for fifteen minutes just to witness you squash it. Hermione, do you mind that I gave Macdolas permission to continue watching your series?”.

“Not in the slightest, Mac dear. I’m tickled pink that you’ve been so inspired by it. You may watch it whenever you wish,” Hermione warmly reassures the fretful sprite.

“Grace Lady Granger is too kind,” Macdolas simpers. “Macdolas decides the Master Bingley and the Miss Jane Bennett closely resemble Macdolas and Ruibby, and Macdolas resolves to take a leaf out of Master Bingley’s tree in his courtship rituals!” he beams proudly.

“It’s a leaf out of his ‘book’, squirt,” Draco corrects with a grin. “And you fit the bill of ‘redheaded and staunchly optimistic’, I’ll give you that.”

Macdolas is undeterred. “The Master Darcy and the Miss Elizabeth Bennett remind Macdolas of Master and Her Grace – though Grace Lady Granger is more beautiful and wise. And Master Malfoy is not as rich,” he pipes up as an afterthought.

Draco twists his mouth in a wry grin. _Pert little punk_. He decides against retorting as the gravel path leads them to the set of four stone steps below the conservatory’s French doors. Though the glass-paned building’s exterior is coloured a dark grey, Narcissa remodelled the inside to be decorated in whites and soft greens when she first came to the Manor as a young bride.

Pulling open the right hand door, Draco ushers Hermione and Macdolas to precede him inside, before closing it behind them. He helps Hermione to remove her overcoat before hanging hers and his on the nearby coat rack. The temperature inside is balmy and humid. Lush greenery dominates the outer borders of the large space, while an oval table covered in an Irish linen and lace tablecloth is positioned in the centre of the main room.

Narcissa gracefully rises from her wooden chair at the head of the table. “Hello, Draco darling. So pleased you to have you here, Hermione. Please, be seated.” The lady of the Manor gestures languidly to the chair at her left.

“Macdolas, would you care to assist Ruibby with bringing out the brunch dishes, please? She’s in the kitchen. Thank you.” The steward snaps his fingers instantly after hearing the request and Disapparates on the spot.

Hermione murmurs a quiet greeting and perches on the allotted seat while Draco pushes it in for her. He ignores his mother’s wave at the chair on her right and instead sits beside his girlfriend, reclaiming his handhold. A minor tightening around the corners of her eyes and mouth are the only signs that his mother is displeased with his small act of disobedience. Draco folds back his smirk.

“What a lovely dress, Hermione – those colours harmonize marvellously with your complexion,” Narcissa compliments the younger woman.

“Thank you – I bought it at Mark’s & Spencer three years ago,” Hermione’s lips quirk upward as she tests his mother’s fashion snobbery.

“It’s a timeless style, and suits you well,” Narcissa rejoins without missing a beat.

 _Well, she’s certainly striving to be welcoming and charming,_ Draco ponders. _Hopefully, this isn’t the calm before the storm._

“Mother – where’s Lucius?” Draco is unable to stop his eyes roaming the verdant expanse.

“Rest easy, Draco – he isn’t hiding behind a potted palm, waiting to leap out and cackle,” Narcissa cuttingly rebukes. “Lucius is in his study, brooding: and there he shall remain. I thought it best to not exacerbate Ms Granger’s understandable reservations in returning to the Manor. Perhaps Hermione could attend a future Friday dinner, should she feel comfortable in doing so,” Narcissa suggests with a small smile.

The woman by his side remains silent, but Draco feels her tension in her handgrip and in the slightly hunched set of her shoulders.

“Don’t push it, please, Mother. I believe Hermione is anxious enough about today’s interaction.” Draco shuffles his chair a little closer, debating about whether they should simply leave now and be done with his mother’s crafty scheming.

“I’m alright.” Hermione’s voice is strong and even as she addresses Narcissa. “However, I would like to know the purpose behind your invitation, Lady– Narcissa.” She gazes steadily into his mother’s sky-coloured eyes.

“Heavens, dear – do get straight to the point. I’d forgotten how… forthright you Gryffindors are wont to be.” Narcissa leans back in her seat, keenly scrutinizing the young couple before she speaks again.

“Hermione, I asked you here today to formally welcome you to our home and family… and to apologize unreservedly for the terrible treatment you experienced here, in the past. I cannot excuse my behaviour – nor do I expect forgiveness – but I wish you to know that I sincerely regret my part in causing you harm, and in perpetuating the evil of blood purity and the foul tyranny of Vold– the Dark Lord. I am sorry.”

She falters on the last sentence, repeating it in a husky whisper. “I am deeply sorry.”

Holding his breath, Draco is relieved to hear Hermione’s matter-of-fact correction.

“His name was _Voldemort_ – and he is dead. Or more accurately, forever stuck in Limbo. Harry told me that his last glimpse of the self-made inhuman demon formerly known as Tom Riddle was of a bloodied, squalling, distorted, child-like avatar. I like to remind myself of that pathetic shrunken image, when my nightmares pay a visit.”

Inclining her head slightly, Hermione adds, “I accept your apology… Narcissa. Though my trust in the sincerity of your motives is yet to be earned.” There is a thread of steel in her voice, of which Draco heartily approves.

“Of course. I hope that you will allow me the time in which to secure it,” his mother nods in return. The two witches eye each other speculatively.

Narcissa is the first to resume conversation. “Tell me, how long have you and Draco been seeing each other? I am fascinated to learn how you re-connected, after all these years,” she prompts, flicking a narrowed glance at Draco.

“That’s none of your business, Mother,” Draco interjects, as Hermione simultaneously offers, “Three weeks unofficially, one day officially.”

 _Oh, fantastic. Like his wily parent won’t gleefully and ruthlessly dissect that clanger until the cows come home._ Draco readies himself for the beginning of the interrogation, knowing that sooner or later his cunning mother will pump him mercilessly for every scrap of information about his incredible alliance with the ‘Golden Girl’… he fervently hopes he can avoid the gruelling third degree today.

The sound and sight of Ruibby manifesting into the room (bearing two balanced silver platters loaded with aromatic foodstuffs) is most welcome. Macdolas appears behind her, carrying two more platters; he wears a huge adoring grin on his face as he shadows Ruibby’s efficient transfer of the meals to the tabletop. The male elf’s beam sobers whenever Ruibby turns in his direction, although Macdolas’s poker-face needs much more fine-tuning.

“Looks delicious – thank you, Ruibby,” Draco praises the teeny housekeeper. She prims her mouth but deigns to give him an acknowledging bow as she arrays the antique porcelain tea set just so.

“This is the complete Royal Albert Serena bone china set,” Hermione marvels, stretching a finger to stroke a delicate flowery tea cup in wonderment.

“Oh – you’re a collector? That is tremendous,” Narcissa eagerly encourages.

“Hardly! No, my mother is the enthusiast, she has a small treasured assortment… she used to take me to garage sales and antique fairs, always hoping to bag a hidden bargain,” Hermione quietly laughs, staring wistfully at the fine china.

“Well, it’s delightful to have the opportunity to use it in congenial company.” Ever the consummate host, Narcissa smooths over the pensive moment. “And look – it almost matches your dress! How serendipitous,” she smiles.

The house elves have nearly completed their shared task of conveying and arranging the comestibles to the table; Macdolas makes a final check of the steaming tea in the vintage pot before stepping back slightly.

“Would Mistress Ruibby care to take a turn about the rose garden with Macdolas, he deferentially requests?” the manservant holds out his gangly hand to his little blonde counterpart as he bows before her.

“Ruibby graciously endorses Macdolas’s invitation,” and she lays her tiny hand atop his palm. Macdolas looks as though he’s just single-handedly won the Quidditch World Cup. He carefully moves Ruibby’s fingers into the crook of his elbow and nods triumphantly to Draco.

“Master Malfoy and Lady Malfoy and Grace Lady Granger, we please take our temporary leave with your permission?” he squeaks in undisguised joy.

“Of course – we need no servers,” Narcissa agrees. “Enjoy yourselves.” Ruibby demurely curtseys as they exit the room, the corners of her lips twitching upward.

“They’re awfully cute together,” Hemione ventures. “Do you think your romantic advice will bear fruit, Malfoy?” she turns to smirk at him, mocha eyes twinkling with hope and humour.

Somehow, Draco finds enough fortitude to resist bending forward and kissing her pretty rosy lips. _She is so exquisitely sweet and beautiful – I can’t comprehend how she is here, with me… with my mother._ He forgets to reply to her query as he loses himself in exhilaration and niggling disbelief.

“Draco, Hermione asked you a question,” Narcissa reminds. “I myself have confidence that the little munchkins will soon consolidate their obvious bond.” She applies herself to pouring them each a cup of tea.

“If Macdolas can keep his mouth shut for more than two minutes, they may yet have a chance,” Draco qualifies. “He’s his own worst enemy.”

“Like another young male I know,” Narcissa mutters sharply. Draco glares back, briefly opening their shared Legilimency bond to send her a silent message: _Don’t undermine me or my choices in front of my **very** new girlfriend. Please. I’m uneasy with this meeting as it is. Do you wish for her to bolt, and for my extended absence? _

_Of course not. I will behave. Sorry, darling_. An expression of rue crosses Narcissa’s genteel face before she resets her composure, running her pale fingers through her long strand of perfectly homogenous lily-white pearls (it is one of her few emotional ‘tells’, Draco remembers).

“Sugar and cream, Hermione?” She supplies both at the younger witch’s acquiescent nod. “Do tuck into this splendid repast – the staff have outdone themselves.”

Draco’s nerve-suppressed appetite returns as he looks at (and scents) the extensive array of tempting dishes. Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and powdered sugar; ramekins of coddled eggs and crisp wood-smoked bacon strips; blintzes stuffed with ricotta cream, accompanied by small pots of sour cherry sauce and golden honey; creamy mini quiches containing shredded ham, cheddar, and spinach; a large plate of sliced and balled seasonal fruits; and a warmed baguette with yellow pats of butter.

_No wonder Hermione’s expressive brown eyes have near bugged out of her head – there is enough food on the table to feed a dozen._

“Are you certain we have enough brunch options, Mother?” Draco facetiously inquires, winking at Hermione as he speaks. Her lips button as she bites away her smile. “Here, have some blintzes, _ma_ _petite_ – they are exceptional,” he uses the silver tongs to select the best-looking crepe triangles and places them upon her plate, before drizzling them with sauce and honey, respectively.

Continuing to offer Hermione a sample of every available dish, Draco does the same for his mother, before he serves himself a portion of each. The mood is amiable, enhanced by the warmth of the artificially-controlled environment and the near-noon daylight streaming through the myriad glass panes.

“Tell me, Hermione – do you enjoy your work at the Ministry? I understand you’re currently employed in the Wizengamot Administrative Services division?” Narcissa projects genuine interest, sipping at her dainty cup of Oolong tea.

Hermione dabs at her mouth with her chalk-white linen napkin. “Yes – I’m finding my current role rather limiting, actually,” she divulges, casting a quick peripheral look at Draco. “The Ministry seems to delight in an overuse of red tape, to the detriment of effecting swift and progressive policy change. It’s not my supervisor’s fault – Mrs Sandore is extremely supportive – but I suspect the upper echelons are reluctant to shake up a system that is still tenuously cobbled together, after the catastrophe of Voldemort’s insidious coup.”

“Quite disappointing,” Narcissa agrees. “Do you have ambitions to eventually attain the position of the Minister for Magic, Hermione?”.

Sighing, Hermione expostulates, “Not any more. After the War, I was short-sightedly swayed by the unnatural euphoria of victory, and by the many grand assurances of my aptness for the top job – I should have known better.’

“Really, I have always wanted to use my skills to make a meaningful, positive difference to others’ lives. Unfortunately, I don’t think that my current career path is the way to realize that objective… Draco has helped me to see that I’ve been ‘wasting my life pleasing other people’ – I think that was the phrase he used?” she gently ribs the tow-headed wizard beside her.

Narcissa tuts her disapproval. “Draco – really? That’s a brutal thing to say to one’s paramour.”

“No, he was right,” Hermione defends, before Draco can open his mouth to justify himself. “And he followed that eye-opener by explaining that he was incredibly frustrated by my blindness at seeing how ‘extraordinary’ I really am,” she paraphrases Draco’s words with a grateful smile in his direction.

“Much better,” says an appeased Narcissa. “Have you given any thought to a change of career?” She takes a fastidious bite from a melon ball.

“I’m still considering my options, at this stage… I’ll need to do some extensive research,” Hermione demurs.

“Well, the Manor’s libraries are always open to you, Hermione. We have a centuries-old collection just crying out for regular readers; and I’m certain Draco has already informed you that the Dark materials were comprehensively removed and/or destroyed.”

Hermione’s surprise is evident by her raised brows. “Thank you, that’s most kind,” she slowly answers. “I do have a few subjects I’d like more information about…”

“Excellent. If it’s not too daunting, perhaps you’d like me to give you a short tour of the main bibliotheca before you leave? It’s not far from the conservatory. And you have my guarantee that my husband shall not disturb you in any way. You may select whichever tomes you wish – Draco will arrange to have them safely transferred to your abode, won’t you, _mon_ _fils_?” Narcissa urges.

Draco checks Hermione’s candid countenance before he nods his agreement; she appears a tad edgy, but mostly excited about his mother’s crafty lure. _Hook the bookworm early in the piece and keep her close with a huge lending library. Well played, Narcissa. Well played._

“I would like that very much – thank you, Narcissa.” Hermione is practically bouncing in her seat at the prospect.

Sighing internally, Draco resigns himself to spending far more time today at his ancestral stomping ground than he’d anticipated. Mostly he is aggrieved because he’d envisaged spending their Sunday engaged in much more… mutually gratifying pursuits. He loses more than a few minutes in contemplation of those decidedly sensual activities, lips unconsciously curving as he fantasizes –

“Malfoy, why do you have that weird leer on your face?” Hermione whispers, tugging gently on his hand to garner his attention. He murmurs the answer into her right ear, aware that his mother is tracking their muttered exchange.

“Ask me later, Granger… you’ll enjoy my answer, and the physical presentation that follows.” Draco delights in her rosy cheeks and flushed décolletage.

The remainder of their brunch passes quickly. They have managed to consume just under half the opulent buffet; Ruibby and a puffed-up Macdolas appear on cue to clear away the spread as Narcissa pours them all another cup of tea (after casting a heating charm on the cooled liquid).

“How was your walk?” Hermione asks the petite pair. Ruibby blushes a little, halting in her gathering of used crockery to adjust the tiny yellow rosebud precariously tucked behind her elven ear, beneath the gathers of her ivory mob cap.

“Invigorating it was, Grace Lady Granger; Ruibby thanks Her Grace for her interest,” the maidservant warmly confides. Macdolas grins like a Cheshire cat, somehow constantly keeping his moon-eyes on Ruibby as he efficiently clears the table.

Draco debates calling out Macdolas for shamelessly appropriating one of the early rose blossoms, but Hermione’s tiny head shake stills his rebuke.

_At least the little knave chose well, since yellow roses signify friendship, joy and caring. Perhaps the headstrong house elf is finally reining in his penchant for reckless overstatement, after all._

_One can but hope._

* * *

French translation:

'Mon fils' - 'My son'.


	30. Benevolence

__

_Sunday 09 March 2003: PM_

“Are you certain that my presence at supper will be tolerated?” Hermione represses her smugness at Draco’s uneasy query.

 _It’s my swain’s turn to steel himself for an uncertain reception – should I let him dangle over the abyss a little longer, or assuage the fears he believes he’s masked with that practised haughty façade?_ Hermione covers her mouth to hide her smile.

The man in question is scowling at his reflection in his hallway mirror. He has already precisely combed and re-combed his argentine hair twice; Hermione suspects that he would have also changed his pristine navy chinos and matching button-down shirt and blazer, had they not been strapped for time after her extended perusal of Malfoy Manor’s glorious split-level main library.

She’d been oblivious to the passage of time until Draco had bluntly informed her that it was past four o’clock. Lulled by the incredible tomes and relaxing atmosphere, Hermione had shucked almost all her remaining misgivings about venturing inside the mansion. Narcissa had led her swiftly through the side door from the rear gardens, sparing her any glimpse of the gloomy room in which she had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange.

Unable to stifle her gasp of sheer awe at the thousands upon thousands of precious books lining the vast interior, Hermione had immersed herself in the library’s treasures within a matter of minutes. After carefully processing Narcissa’s detailed explanation of layout and facilities (“Simply speak aloud the desired category, genre, title, or author and the catalogue will send up a shower of sparks to lead you to the correct designation – or you may save yourself the trouble of collection and ‘ _Accio’_ the texts straight to you”), Hermione had traced leather-bound spines with reverent fingers as she’d explored the boundaries of the welcoming chamber.

Dimly, she’d been aware of Narcissa and Draco conversing behind her: Narcissa’s tone had been amused, Draco’s resigned. “I’ve seen this before – Hermione won’t willingly surface unless a fire flares up around her… even then, her attention is not assured,” he’d grumbled.

Narcissa had excused herself; Hermione had recollected her manners long enough to thank her for brunch, and for the invitation to investigate the library. After the Malfoy matriarch’s departure, Draco had firmly towed Hermione to a cosy nook behind the primary stacks, seating her in a two-seater brown leather Victorian love seat. He’d settled in behind her, encouraging her to lean her back against his front as she’d hummed and hawed over which books to summon first.

It hadn’t taken long for the nearby coffee table to become piled with a wide array of variously sized tomes. Draco had spurned choosing his own reading material, instead preferring to occasionally peer over her shoulder. He’d slowly stroked her waist and nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck, untying the thick pink ribbon holding her ponytail in place so he could lightly card his left hand through her thick curls.

Her inner nerd had protested the distraction, but fortunately her desperate need for the beautiful blond wizard’s touch had overridden that grumpy bitch. ‘ _Accio_ - _ing_ ’ book after book, Hermione had loved Draco’s calming yet stimulating caresses. His hands had eventually ceased their motions; she’d turned her head to note that Malfoy was fast asleep, his blond head supported by a velvet cushion. He’d not relinquished his possessive hold of her waist though, as she’d contentedly kept reading about the phenomenon of magical cores uniting. Draco had awoken when Narcissa had returned with a light afternoon tea of coffee and buttercream macarons, and eventually Draco had pointed out the time and instigated their departure.

But: back to her lofty lover. Hermione decides to gift him a much-needed warning.

“Malfoy, if Hagrid offers you any of his infamous stoat sandwiches at supper – it might be best to claim an allergy to rodent meat,” she informs. Their eyes meet in the mirror as Draco’s widen in unfeigned horror.

“You’re joking… aren’t you?” he pleads.

“Not at all. Hagrid considers it to be one of his specialties.” Hermione laughs at Draco’s stricken expression. “Also, avoid the rock cakes – they are aptly titled – and any home-brews or mystery liquors he’s sourced at The Hog’s Head Inn.”

“I don’t drink, so that shan’t be a problem.” Draco’s tone is clipped. He plucks at his blazer sleeve, eyes averted as he asks, “Must we take Macdolas with us, Granger? His jubilation over Ruibby’s softening has been nigh insufferable.”

“Luna included Mac in the supper invitation, so yes. I think he’s been adorable. And he listened to your advice, and didn’t come on too strong with her today,” Hermione reminds Draco.

“ _You’re_ adorable – Macdolas is a brazen crawler,” Draco gathers her into a clinch, sliding his palms up over the sides of her neck and cupping her cheeks as he kisses her passionately.

He tears his mouth away to gripe, “We should have been doing more of this today, _ma_ _petite_. But you were utterly winsome with your consummate worship of the library, so I am unable to truly complain.” He lowers his plush lips to hers again, crowding her against the hallway wall and wedging his muscled leg between her slim thighs.

 _Do we really have to attend supper?_ Hermione muses dazedly. _Perhaps it’s not too late to send an apologetic owl?_ Her self-serving ruminations are interrupted by an animated little voice.

“Macdolas is ready and asks if he may wear the sabre scabbard for this outing, Master Malfoy?”.

The high-pitched request has Draco growling in irked frustration. Hermione thinks she hears him scathingly mumble “cock-blocker” beneath his breath, which she ignores as she pushes off the wall.

“Best to leave it behind, Mac. But let’s get moving, we don’t want to be late.” Joining hands, the trio prepare to Apparate to the outskirts of Hogsmead.

* * *

 _Draco needn’t have worried_ , Hermione concludes, with amusement and satisfaction. Judging by the strength of the hug the hairy half-giant throws around an alarmed Draco, Hagrid seems to have well and truly left behind any animosity about the Malfoy heir’s prior poor behaviour.

Coughing, Draco emerges from the bear hug looking chastened, his once scrupulously-combed hair now sticking up in asymmetrical spikes.

“Yeh’ve grown up righ’ tall an’ strong, young Malfoy,” Hagrid beams approvingly, his weighty paw still gripping Draco’s tensed shoulder as the fair-haired wizard winces and produces a weak smile.

“’Course, yeh were always a fine one for sports – shame yeh didn’ have the chance ter ride Bucky, yeh would’ve been a natural, like as no’.” Hagrid’s dark eyes gleam as Draco shifts uncomfortably at the mention of his chequered history with the hippogriff.

“Eh, I’m jes’ having some fun wi’ yeh, lad. I got yer letter, an’ all’s forgiven an’ forgotten as far as I’m concerned,” Hagrid rumbles as Draco’s stiff posture relaxes.

 _Letter? Another apology letter?_ Hermione parts her lips to interrogate the pair, but her words are crushed against her huge friend’s broad chest as Hagrid pulls her in for an affectionate hug.

“Hermione love, yeh’re as pretty as a picture! So young Malfoy’s the reason behind yer special glow these days, eh?”. Hagrid loosens his hold as Hermione tries not to pinken. “Well, he always did carry a secret torch fer yeh, since yeh were little tykes.”

He turns his head to sternly address her boyfriend. “Yeh’re a lucky bloke though, young Draco – there’s no’ many witches what’d forgive yeh fer summat the things yeh said… though yeh prob’ly didn’t know no better, I’ll grant yeh that. Jus’ be sure ter treat Hermione like yer queen, an’ yeh won’t have no bother from me.”

Draco makes a noise that sounds like “Yark?” to Hermione’s reddening ears. Fortunately, Luna rescues them from their mutual embarrassment as she moves in to side-hug the pair.

“Hullo, Hermione, Draco – and Mac. Hagrid, this is Macdolas, he’s Malfoy Manor’s chief steward and our friend. Macdolas, this is Professor Rubeus Hagrid.”

“Enough o’ that Professor business now, Luna – jus’ call me Hagrid, little fella. Scottish, are yeh? Yeh’re a fine folk and clever ter boot. Fancy a wee dram of Glenfiddich? It’s jus’ the thing on a nippy spring evenin’…”

Hagrid turns to rummage on a high shelf in his cluttered kitchen, stopping in bemusement as Hermione and Luna yell, “No!” in unison. They share a look of panic as they jointly remember the disastrous results of Macdolas’s last sampling of high-proof alcohol.

“Thank you, Hagrid, but Macdolas had a little trouble with an excess of wine at our girls’ night in recently,” Hermione diplomatically explains as Macdolas’s elastic ears droop in disappointment. “I’m sure we’d all love a cuppa though?”.

“S’alright, laddie – yeh won’t be gettin’ ‘blootered’ tonight, but I migh’ Irish-up yeh tea when the lassies are lookin’ the other way!” Hagrid winks as he booms out an ‘aside’ that can probably be clearly heard in Hogsmead. He busies himself with preparing the tea.

Hermione chuckles to herself as she notices Draco carefully running his heather-grey eyes over the supper fare; she places a hand on his knee as they perch on the high stools, Luna on Draco’s other side.

“Looks like you’re off the hook, Malfoy – Luna’s prepared our meal tonight,” Hermione whispers. He smiles gratefully and brings her hand to his mouth for a quick kiss to her palm.

Macdolas foregoes trying to climb up via the spare stool’s tall ladder rungs, instead magicking himself into the chair as he cheerily scans the interior of the hut. His eyes enlarge when he spies Fang and Crookshanks curled up before the steady hearth fire.

“The Crooky is here – he tames a Hellhound!” the house elf gasps.

“No, Fang is a boarhound, Mac,” Luna corrects. “He lacks the traditional glowing red eyes of the standard Hellhound, and the foul odour. It’s an easy mistake to make, of course.” She picks up a tray of crustless sandwiches. “Mashed swede sandwich?”.

Hermione and Draco each take a few triangles of the yellowy-orange vegetarian sarnies; Macdolas helps himself to four. They each pass around the hot pumpkin scones with cream and apricot jam, mini Dirigible plum puff pastries, and moist squares of carrot cake as Hagrid brings over the giant homely teapot.

“Is it just me, or is all this food orange?” Draco murmurs as Luna slides off her stool to collect another teaspoon.

“I believe Luna is starting an ‘Enhanced Vision’ Food week,” Hermione asserts. “Don’t look so frightened – she’s an excellent cook. And the Dirigible plums probably don’t contain actual hallucinogens, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she reassures.

“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until you just mentioned it,” Draco hides his grimace as Luna returns to her seat. The little blonde Ravenclaw watches approvingly as Draco munches on one of the dubious pastries.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying those, Draco – Father and I have fine-tuned the recipe over the past few years; hardly any of the adverse side effects manifest anymore,” Luna proclaims, biting into one of the delicacies herself.

“Side effects?” Draco audibly gulps down the last morsel.

“Well, occasionally some wizards _have_ spoken in tongues for a few hours after consumption – but that’s not necessarily due to the Dirigible plum factor. We haven’t run enough clinical studies to be sure. But the diarrhoea almost never presents anymore. It was just a matter of getting the perfect balance of fruit to lemon juice.”

Luna pops another orangey puff pastry onto Draco’s plate. He stares down at it as though it may detonate at any moment.

Macdolas has no such qualms, scoffing down a goodly quantity of everything on offer as Hagrid slyly slips him a spiked cup of tea. Hermione decides she’d best divert Draco’s disapproving attention away from the elvish glutton.

“How are your classes progressing, Luna? Anything new happening at Hogwarts?” Hermione asks her friend.

“Oh, yes – Headmistress McGonagall is frantically trying to find a replacement professor for Arithmancy. Professor Dankworth quit in a huff last week and has already decamped back to Ilvermorny,” Luna calmly discloses. “Cleo said she’d rather teach a passel of plague-riddled Doxies than waste another moment with the current lot of slug-headed students.’

“I think it would depend on the particular plague though; and whether the Doxies were fitted with appropriate muzzles during class,” Luna prosaically offers her take on the matter.

“Arithmancy?” Hermione echoes, pausing in the act of liberally smearing apricot jam on a pumpkin scone. “Has Minerva reached out to Beauxbatons yet? I’ve heard that they have a strong program in place.”

Luna shrugs her petite shoulders. “I believe she’s waiting to hear back from them. At the moment, Minerva is instructing the classes herself, but she already has too many plates spinning in the air.”

Hermione looks down at her own crumb-filled plate and chews her bottom lip, lost in thought. Hagrid’s jovial voice dispels her introversion.

“That was a jolly good beano, Luna love! Thank yeh kindly fer providin’ it, an’ next time I insist on treatin’ yeh all ter some of my ‘signature dishes’… I reckon yeh’ll enjoy ‘em, lil’ Mac.” Hagrid gazes fondly down at the diminutive elf; the ecru vest beneath Macdolas’s Redcoat soldier’s jacket is distinctly distended. Macdolas blinks sluggishly as he nods his agreement.

“Well, I’ll jus’ clear this lot away an’ then give Fang an’ Crooky their dinners – best ter feed Fang outside, he does tend ter take offence ter Crooky tryin’ ter steal his bones… “. The regular-sized plates Hagrid begins to assemble look like doll’s crockery in his giant mitts.

“Let us do that, Hagrid,” Hermione intervenes, as Draco gathers their own plates. “Perhaps Draco and Mac could help you outside?” She nudges an elbow into Draco’s muscular side.

“Love to,” Draco deadpans, as Fang pads eagerly forward upon hearing the magic words. Yawning, Crooky strolls up and effortlessly launches into Macdolas’s skinny lap, indolently waving his marmalade brushtail to and fro in the elf’s pointy face as Macdolas struggles to keep his balance.

“You alright there, mate?” Draco moves to take custody of the Kneazlecat, but Macdolas manages to secure his equilibrium and adjust his hold.

“Macdolas is friends with the Crooky now – the purrs tells him so! Lead the way, Master Hagrid!” he enthusiastically chirps. The unusual trio trudge outside, after Hagrid puts down a bowl of wet food for Crooky and hoists a large battered tin bucket into his left hand. The big cat springs down from Mac’s tenuous grasp with alacrity as the other males leave the hut.

Luna and Hermione clear the table and set the dishes to wash with a few quick spells. They move to the begrimed window to watch as Draco gingerly reaches into the bucket, retrieving and tossing a massive bloodied bone. He flings it like a discus as Fang avidly chases it down. The two women burst into mutual laughter at the pained moue of distaste on Draco’s comely features as he gropes into the bucket for another lump of gristly meat. Macdolas gleefully claps his twiggy hands as Fang catches the next hunk in mid-air, his powerful jaws and teeth making short work of it.

“Poor Draco; I bet this is the first time he’s ever fed a boarhound,” Hermione chortles. She spontaneously hugs her fabulous friend.

“Luna, I can’t thank you enough – I finally found the guts to talk with Draco last night… and he admitted that he has similar feelings for me… and, well, we’re officially ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ now.” She cannot contain the joyful smile that spans her face.

“Good. All you needed was a push. Your magnetic polarities were temporarily misaligned,” Luna tranquilly expounds.

“Draco said something similar to me once…” Hermione reminisces. “Also – Blaise Zabini very nearly fouled up my plans to invite Draco to the Spring Equinox Ball! He’d coerced Draco to agree to accompany Astoria Greengrass instead, by calling in a favour Draco owes him. I lost my nerve when Draco told me that… Luna, I was so hurt.’ She scratches absentmindedly at her left forearm through the dusk pink cardigan sleeve.

“But then… I reminded myself of everything you’d drilled into my head on over the past few days, about how Draco has been showing me how he cares for me all along, though he hasn’t said it. And I figured, well – I won’t die wondering. And Draco gave me nothing at first: I was seconds away from bolting into the Floo and emigrating to Timbuctoo – you’ve no idea. When he finally confessed that he ‘wanted and needed me more than his next breath’ – I could hardly breathe myself. I still can’t quite believe it.” Hermione lapses into a reflective pause.

“Was Blaise trying to push Draco into declaring his true feelings for you, Hermione? He didn’t take Draco’s self-esteem issues and stubbornness into account, if that were the case,” Luna calmly observes. “I knew that your courage wouldn’t desert you; that’s why I told Hagrid that you two were in a proper relationship, as soon as I returned yesterday. He didn’t seem surprised.”

Beetle-browed, Hermione slowly says, “I don’t mind at all that you told Hagrid, Luna. I was expecting much more of an inquisition when we arrived tonight… thank you for bypassing that uneasiness by informing Hagrid – even though it wasn’t quite official then!” she gently chides her chum. “As for Blaise’s motives, I don’t know him well enough to decide what he was about. I hope he can accept Draco’s decision to partner me instead,” Hermione shrugs philosophically.

“Anyway – you’re simply the best, Luna. I really appreciate your help. Thank you.” Gently squeezing Luna’s slight form one last time, Hermione glances out the window again.

“It’s a huge relief that Draco is relaxed here – I was worried how he’d react to coming back to Hogwarts after all this time,” Hermione remarks.

“Oh, he’s been back plenty of times over the past four years, Hermione. It took him a while to properly set up the scholarships with Headmistress McGonagall. He always took pains to keep his visits secret, of course.” Luna drops the bombshell with her usual placidity, her pale blue eyes focused on the antics outside.

“’The scholarships’…” Hermione repeats slowly. “Which scholarships would they be, Luna?” It is an effort to keep her voice steady.

“The memorial scholarships he’s funded, to honour the lost and the wronged. They’re named for students and professors alike: Fred Weasley, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey, Cedric Diggory, Vincent Crabbe, Katie Bell; Severus Snape, Charity Burbage, and Remus Lupin, among others. I believe Draco also has arranged an inviolable trust fund for little Teddy Tonks, and he paid for a goodly chunk of the castle’s repairs and renovations.”

Luna appears mildly annoyed. “I really thought he would have told you this himself by now… but I suppose he did insist on utter anonymity when I first helped to facilitate the negotiations,” she sighs.

Throat clogged, Hermione’s eyes begin to water. _My foolish, conflicted, amazing boyfriend. Forever concealing the best of himself. And yet, he calls himself selfish and arrogant._ Her heart swells like a water balloon as she tries to sniffle away her tears.

Luna lays a comforting small hand on her back as the males re-enter the dwelling. Draco rushes over, stuffing a blood-ruined handkerchief into his pocket. He wraps his arms around a silently crying Hermione.

“Granger – what on earth has happened? Has one of the Dirigible plum pastries had a detrimental effect on you? Tell me, _ma_ _petite_ ,” he pleads. Hermione chokes out a half-laugh as she tilts up her face to tremulously smile at her beau.

“No – I’m just being mushy. Ignore me,” she allays his concerns. Hermione wipes beneath her leaky eyes before Draco links his hands at the dip of her back and declines his ash-blond head to softly kiss her Cupid’s bow mouth.

“My gooey little Gryffindor,” he whispers, before kissing her more deeply. She gladly returns the caress, pushing as much of her overspilling emotions into their lip-lock as she dares.

When they breathlessly come up for air, Hermione slants her eyes to their audience; Hagrid, Luna, and Macdolas are sporting identical expressions of indulgent approval.

Hagrid coughs discreetly as he notes Draco’s hands have moved further south than their original placement. “Migh’ be best if yeh took yer leave soon, I reckon. I’ve no’ got no hairy heart, but there’s some things a man don’ need ter see up close, if yeh catch my drift?”

Luna and Macdolas laugh as the young lovers immediately break apart, awkward discomfiture writ large upon their faces.

Hermione recovers first, smiling happily at her treasured friends. They beam back at her with equal delight.

She snuggles into her handsome blond wizard’s side, knowing herself to be the most blessed witch in the world.

“Let’s go home, Malfoy.”


	31. Proclamation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you (so very much) to all my fantastic readers; your continued support lends me the confidence and determination to keep going on the days when I am convinced everything I write is rubbish and I don't know what I'm doing.
> 
> You guys are simply the best, and I appreciate you more than I can say. XOXO

__

_Monday 10 March 2003: AM_

“Granger – please, try not to fret about it. The comment was directed at me, and I am big and ugly enough to let it slide right off me,” Draco attempts to ease Hermione’s perturbation for the third time in as many minutes.

He appeals to her pragmatism. “Besides, they didn’t say anything that wasn’t technically true… I _was_ a ‘dirty Death Eater’, after all.”

 _Nope. That did not help one whit, judging by Hermione’s stony face and ashen complexion._ Her rebuttal bursts from her sweet lips as she storms around the now-familiar confines of Interrogation Room Number Two.

“They have no right to say such things! Self-righteous, gutless wonders! Gleefully sneering from a distance – you shouldn’t have confiscated my wand, I was only going to impart a warning shot,” she snarls.

“ _Ma_ _petite_ , the terrifyingly vengeful scowl on your face was punishment enough – and I refuse to allow you to endanger your employment by misguidedly defending my honour,” Draco puts down his metaphorical foot. “Though I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf, of course,” he hastily appends his statement after Hermione shoots him a glare that could ignite kindling. 

Enclosing his broad body around her rage-quivering smaller one, he hugs her firmly, managing to peck soft kisses over her angry face as she tries to worm out of his embrace.

“Stop that – that’s unfair, you know I have every right to be furious,” Hermione’s tone softens as she ceases wriggling and curls her own arms around her tall lover.

Draco pauses to answer sincerely, “I would never abnegate your right to your emotions, Granger. It pains me that you are suffering censure because of my disreputable past and infamous reputation.” He loosens his hold as doubt stomps firmly into his consciousness.

“Perhaps… perhaps we should consider keeping our relationship private for a while,” Draco stumbles over the words. _This is exactly what I was afraid of – my beautiful lioness is already under attack because of my Dark past. My selfish need to be with her has already demolished my scruples and misgivings._

Hermione’s face notably crumples. In a tiny voice, she woodenly asks, “You don’t want to publicly acknowledge me? Even after – after everything we said to one another, on Saturday night?”. Face averted, she stiffens against him.

“No, no – of course not, Hermione! I’d take out a full-page advertisement in the Daily Prophet to announce my elation to the world, if I didn’t know it would only make matters infinitely worse for you!” Draco belatedly realizes he is shouting; he gentles his volume and concentrates on imbuing his words with all the sincerity of his tangled emotional state.

“What those two fools jeered, in the elevator? I’m afraid that will just be the tip of the dungheap, once the world knows you have lowered yourself to my level, Granger.” Draco shakes his head as Hermione’s curly head whips around to deny his assertion.

“No: as much as I wish it were possible, I cannot whitewash my history. But I refuse to let it taint yours by mere association.”

The couple stare at one another in fraught silence for a few beats.

“I don’t give a frosty fuck what anyone thinks of us – or of me – except the people I care about, and who care about me.” Hermione’s low vehemence shocks him to the bone (and makes him grin a little, despite the seriousness of their argument).

“I told you before: _I choose you_ , Draco Malfoy. I know who you were, and I know who you are, and neither incarnation gives me pause to do anything but l–loyally support you, and our relationship,” she continues, with the smallest of hitches mid-sentence. He has little time to puzzle over her slip before she launches herself at him.

Wrenching him back into their lapsed hug, Hermione stretches on tip-toe to fiercely kiss the living daylights out of his surprised but compliant mouth. Her capable hands aggressively grasp his tight buttocks through his black suit trousers, pulling him closer as she ravages his lips and mouth, her pink tongue licking deep and tangling with his as Draco groans his pleasure. She pushes her whole body against him and seems to be trying to leverage herself higher and closer.

Spinning them around, he regains some measure of dominance by gripping her curvy bum and hoisting the gorgeous woman onto the no-frills metal table, widening her agate-blue skirt to its full capacity as he jams his breadth between her spread thighs. They enthusiastically battle for the upper hand; Hermione’s Mary Janes in the small of his back anchoring him to her front as she rubs her core against him with ragged thrusts.

“ _Tu es si incroyablement sexy, je ne me lasserai jamais de toi_... I am crazy for you, my little witch,” Draco growls as Hermione creates a mean hickey just above the stiff collar of his pristine white shirt. He lowers her to lie horizontally on the cold surface, cupping her nape to ensure she does not knock her head, before his spry fingers pry loose the top three buttons of her gunmetal blue business shirt.

Forgetting everything but the blood rushing to his head and groin, and his incendiary need to taste her, Draco roughly tugs down the cups of her plain blue bra, popping free both parfait-pink nipples to suckle greedily at them. Her supple back arches as she moans her delight.

“Malfoy – more, please… please,” Hermione’s supplication is music to his ears. He is blind to their surroundings and deaf to anything but her little pleas and expressions of her pleasure. Draco’s lizard brain avidly wonders if he can bring her close to peak with just his mouth and hands on her high round breasts… _Only one way to find out, yes?_ His own loins are blistering with need and craving as he increases the pressure of his lips and tongue. Her tender flesh will be marked by this; the thought makes him growl in possessive satisfaction, and nip a shade harder.

The closed door behind them swings open with a creak and swish.

“Oh, HELL NO!” It slams shut again, before a persistent knocking from the other side finally pierces their lust haze. Hermione freezes mid-whimper and looks up into Draco’s face with a wide-eyed expression of mortification.

“ _Harry!_ ” she squeals softly. “Harry just saw us – oh no, what were we thinking?!” She pushes ineffectually on his hard pectorals. “Malfoy, let me up – I completely lost sight of where we are – it’s all your fault!” she rounds on him.

“All _my_ fault?” Draco is incredulous, reluctantly acceding to her request by stepping back, pulling her upright on the table and deftly tucking her damp, reddened breasts back into her cornflower blue bra. He is unable to resist one final thumb flick of each swollen pink nipple. Draco re-fastens her shirt buttons as Hermione frets and tries to reset her low bun (once ruthlessly tamed but now hopelessly squashed and falling apart).

“Yes – I can’t keep my hands off you, you dangerously sexy beast! I can’t be blamed for that – I can’t!” Hermione illogically accuses, even as her hands smooth down his rumpled blond hair and squeeze at his biceps.

“ _Ma_ _petite_ , may I remind you that _you_ just tried to climb me like a tree? And not moments ago, you passionately begged, ‘more, please – please’?” Draco grins as he defends her silly, snarky attack. He helps her off the cold table and runs his hands down her hips to smooth out her creased knee-length skirt.

“’Begged’ is rather strong… I prefer ‘encouraged’,” Hermione carps; but she sports a small smile. The rapping on the door is growing in volume and pace. Harry’s voice is muffled but perceivable through the wood.

“Right – I’m coming in! You’ve got five seconds – you’ve had more than enough time to sort yourselves out! Five… four… three–“

Draco whips open the portal, catching Harry off balance; the Auror stumbles into the room with a face like thunder. He glares at the tall blond wizard before briefly catching Hermione’s abashed regard; the two old friends synchronously avert their eyes to the side.

Moving to stand directly behind his girlfriend, Draco boldly wraps his arms around her, kissing the pink shell of her earlobe as he soothes, “Please don’t feel discomfited, Granger. Potter didn’t see you – my body blocked his view. I am sorry, I did not mean to embarrass you.”

Harry must have overheard some of his reassurance, as he turns to look Hermione squarely in her troubled chocolate eyes. “He’s right, love – I just caught a glimpse of your shoes digging into this git’s back.” He agitatedly rakes his hands through his jet black mop and huffs out an exasperated breath.

“Look, I support your relationship – you know that, OK? – but I would rather not witness the physical specifics of it with my own eyes… in one of the Interrogation Rooms, for the love of Godric…” he mutters darkly. “My eyes… my poor eyes…”

“Give it a rest, Potter,” Draco snipes. “Nothing untoward happened here. There’s no need to make the situation harder than it needs to be.”

“Don’t bloody talk to me about ‘making things harder’, Malfoy – not after what I just witnessed! What if I’d entered five minutes later? Like I need _that_ in my head, too!” Harry fires back, bumping into the table as he drops his Operation Acromantula files atop it in a hasty heap.

“Guys – can we just move on? Please? Harry, I’m sorry… we got a little carried away,” Hermione plays peacemaker. She attempts to move forward but Draco refuses to let her fully leave the circle of his arms. He presses an open-mouthed smooch on her neck (because he wants to – but also for shits and giggles).

Potter looks away again, but he appears mollified by Hermione’s apology. The bespectacled wizard motions silently for them to take a seat opposite him; Draco sees Hermione settled before he sits down.

 _Hope he isn’t waiting for_ me _to excuse our recent behaviour – he’ll be waiting for an eternity_ , Draco smirks to himself. Potter has one last crack at their inadvertent libidinous display before he gets down to the business of their meeting.

“You’re going to be _that_ couple, aren’t you?” he questions rhetorically. “The pair who sicken everyone around them with their public displays of affection, and sickeningly sweet endearments, and non-stop touchy-feely gropings?” Harry pretends to bang his head on the table in despair.

“No – well, maybe… Harry, we’re an acknowledged couple now, it’s exciting… “ Hermione blathers. “Um, we’ll try to be more circumspect in public,” she finishes in a rush, ducking her head and nervously tracing over a few of the many dents on the surface of the desk.

“I make no such promises,” Draco arrogantly avers. “You should knock before you enter a room; that’s on you, Potter. And you helped to push us together: you all but gave me your blessing in this very space not long ago – so be careful what you wish for,” he concludes, thoroughly enjoying the brunet Auror’s disconcertion.

“Malfoy!” Hermione playfully slaps at the lapel of his black suit jacket; he captures her little hand and raises it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles before holding her hand firmly within his own. He ignores Harry’s groan.

“Get on with it, Potter – we don’t have all day.” Malfoy risks pissing off the other man a little further. Potter’s jade eyes glower but he complies with the directive, pulling the topmost sheet of parchment closer.

“We are close to a breakthrough on the case,” Harry announces, skimming his eyes across his cramped notes. “Technically, Scotland Yard have made the advancements; I went to them last week and asked for their assistance with tracing the computer communications made between the two criminals and their would-be victims,” he expounds, frowning down at the paper.

Hermione leans forward. “What have they learned? Have they attacked other women since they tried with me?” she anxiously enquires. Draco rubs her tense back as they await Harry’s information.

He shakes his dishevelled head. “Not as far as we’re aware – and the other previously targeted women are being closely watched and guarded. But after examining the dating website chats, Scotland Yard have identified a Dark Web forum in which these arseholes have been swapping their rape fantasies, ‘procedural tips’ and hardcore pornography… you get the idea,” Harry hastily sums up as Hermione blanches.

“The good news to come from this is that the Yard are confident they will be able to pinpoint a specific IP address within the next few days; and we have more insight into what their motivations are. There was quite a bit of encoded chatter about funding and planning, which leads us to believe that they have recently come into a significant windfall of assets and cash. While it’s frustrating that we still don’t know their true identities, all of these details will be vital when we do catch and prosecute them,” Harry states grimly.

Gone is any trace of diffidence or mild-mannered bureaucrat. In this moment, Potter looks as he did during his final battle with Voldemort. Implacable. Powerful. Unswervingly dauntless. His eyes blaze behind his glasses. “We will find them, Hermione. You have my word.”

Draco is relieved to note that Hermione has recovered her composure; she nods steadfastly. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Right. I am concerned that the hiatus period between attacks is almost up, though… Hermione, would you consider working from home for the next week or so? Or just until we have made an arrest?” Harry asks quietly.

Her immediate head shake dismays both men. _I could have told you she wouldn’t go for that_ , Draco ponders sombrely. _Maybe I’ll have more luck_.

“I want you to bring Macdolas to the Ministry with you. I know you believe that your work environment is safe, Granger – but you cannot be too careful. Mac would jump at the chance, and you could explain his presence as a research collaborative or suchlike,” Draco adds.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione replies, “Absolutely not – and I’ve advised you not to order me about, Malfoy. I’m already in the company of one or both of you, and there is no need to set up extra security for me at work. Besides, Mac would be bored stiff here – would you have him perch atop my cubicle like a ruddy mascot all day?” she scoffs.

“Who’s Macdolas?” a puzzled Potter chips in.

“Malfoy Manor’s chief steward – he’s our best house elf,” Draco grits out, displeased that Hermione has shot him down so quickly. “Potter, would you agree that Hermione cannot be too careful when it comes to her personal safety?” Draco tries again to make the stubborn witch see sense.

Frustratingly, Potter focuses on the less important aspect of his explanation. “Wait – _your_ house elf is Hermione’s bodyguard? Wow.” Harry reclines back into the unforgiving old chair, steepling his hands in a reflective gesture.

“Maybe you should give more thought to Malfoy’s suggestion, Hermione. We’re not trying to order you about – as if that’s ever worked, anyway – but I would feel much less concerned if you did have someone with you at all times,” Potter gently urges.

Hermione’s pretty mouth is now an uncompromising thin line. “No. I have little enough personal space as it is, Harry. And much as I adore Mac, he wouldn’t be happy just sitting around watching me research dull old legal texts and sitting in on boring Wizengamot court proceedings.”

Her words engender an uneasy thought in Draco’s mind. “Granger… have I been smothering you? Crowding you? I am sorry, I never meant – that is, I’ll give you as much space as you need, _ma_ _petite_ ,” he ignores Potter’s green gaze as strokes Hermione’s hand.

“Of course not! I never meant to imply – I just meant, I’m used to spending a lot of time on my own. I love being with you, Malfoy,” Hermione’s candid smile and light palm squeeze help allay Draco’s fears.

“Ugh. I called it. You two are revoltingly sweet. I think one of my molars fell out after that,” Harry jokes. Draco scowls.

“Was that all you wished to tell us, Potter? Do you need to speak with Lucius again?” He keeps his tone cool and even.

“Not at this stage.” Harry hesitates. “Malfoy, are you one hundred percent certain that your father has nothing to do with the men we seek? I am not trying to insult you – but it is difficult to get a read on his character these days. He gave me nothing but the bare facts when I questioned him at the Manor,” Harry divulges.

Draco shrugs cynically. “Lucius is like that with everyone, except my mother. As to your query – he is capable of being involved in this pernicious plot, but I cannot comprehend how he would manage it, given his strict house arrest and state of wandless-ness.’

“I monitor his situation thoroughly and regularly, and I assure you that Lucius has not had contact with the outside word for almost five years, apart from a few rare visitors for my mother. While nothing is impossible, I would argue that Lucius’s participation is highly improbable,” he reckons. 

Potter nods and scratches down something in his crabbed script. “Good. Well, that’s everything… Hermione, please tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary? Even if it’s not tangible?”.

“I will. But honestly, Harry – I am currently under more supervision than Prince William. And I’m sleeping with this particular bodyguard most nights,” she teases as she points to Draco and leans into his prompt kiss.

“Every night, if I have any say in the matter,” Draco amends, planting another smacking kiss on her parted lips.

Harry holds up his note paper to cover his eyes. “Go! Just go! Don’t sexualize my workplace!” But he is laughing as he protests. Draco doesn’t bother to say goodbye as he sweeps up Hermione and hustles her outside.

She is giggling as he walks her the short distance to her pedestrian little cubicle, taking care not to stand to close to her; he is conscious of the curious eyes of her colleagues. The slurs aimed at him during their earlier elevator ride have reminded him that the wizarding public will strongly disapprove of their unexpected relationship.

“I’d best leave you to it, Granger,” Draco allows himself just one featherlight stroke of her soft cheek as he turns to leave. She pouts, stilling his departure by sliding her hand around his left forearm.

“Won’t you bid me farewell properly?” she petitions, tipping up her head and gazing deeply into his eyes. Her beautiful multi-hued brown orbs are bright and expectant. _Salazar – it is killing me not to kiss her! But I will not draw more censure to her._

He shakes his head ruefully. “Best not to, not here,” he murmurs, hands crimping into fists to stop himself reaching for her.

She scans the room; Draco sees the very moment when she realizes the reason behind his reticence. “You’re worried about what my co-workers will think,” she breathes. “I’ll take care of that right now.”

Hermione swivels and places her hands on her hips to address the room of gawking Ministry drones.

In a strident, clear tone (reminiscent of her many classroom expositions), she announces, “Since you’re all trying so desperately not to notice – here you have it. This is my boyfriend, Draco Malfoy. If anyone has a problem with that, I expect to hear it straight from your mouth, and not in a series of muttered asides or nasty whispers. But know this: I don’t give a fig what any of you think. Anyone who tries to interfere in our relationship will regret it – immediately.”

She glares about the room with her famous Gryffindor spunk. “Well?”. Nary a workmate dares speak. Draco would laugh at their uniformly gobsmacked expressions, if he weren’t overcome with awe, and the strange feeling of his heart shifting in his chest at her uncompromising avowal of their connection.

 _By the stars – Hermione Granger just claimed me as her own. Unconditionally. Knowing full well word will spread like wildfire in this teeming rabbit warren._ Draco decides to match her bravery with some of his own. He gathers his plucky little witch to him and theatrically dips her over his arm, kissing her with unrestrained fervour as her hands enthusiastically curl around his neck. The last stubborn tucks of her bun give up fighting the good fight as her splendid chestnut ringlets tumble down her back.

He returns her to vertical and slowly eases them apart when he hears soft clapping. Hermione’s supervisor is standing in the doorway of her office, a huge smile adorning her pleasant face.

“Congratulations, Ms Granger, Mr Malfoy,” Marilda pronounces. “I’m thrilled to hear the news; but perhaps you could settle into the day’s work now, Ms Granger?”.

Hermione blushes as they step back from one another. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight, Malfoy?”.

“You will indeed, Granger. Wild Thestrals couldn’t drag me away.” Draco nods his thanks to Mrs Sandore before he spins on his heel and makes his way toward Level Five.

 _She claimed me_. The refrain runs through his elated brain like the chorus of a favourite song. _Me_.

* * *

“I’m not taking Astoria Greengrass to the Spring Equinox Ball.”

Zabini folds his arms across his chest as he leans back on his desk. “Hallo, Blaise old chap! How have you been, buddy? There’s a little matter I’ve been meaning to raise with you; mind if we have a quick word?” he mimics Draco’s cool tones with disturbing accuracy. 

“I’ve said my piece. Save your dramatics for amateur theatre.” Draco turns to leave.

“Not so fast, my friend – you definitely owe me an explanation. Nay – you owe me an entreaty for letting you off the hook… IF I let you off the hook.”

 _The dark-eyed blighter is already enjoying this too much_ , Draco thinks sourly.

“I told you. I’m not taking Astoria, and that’s that.”

“May I ask why?” Blaise is all (feigned) politeness.

“You strong-armed me into it; and I’m committed elsewhere,” Draco grudgingly admits.

“A-ha!” Blaise crows.

 _Like the big brassy rooster he is. Don’t let him bait you, he lives for this shit._ Draco stays silent.

“I wonder… would your alternate date for the Ball be a lively little package whose name rhymes with ‘Danger’? Blaise looks insufferably smug as he chuckles at his own lame humour.

“Do not call her a ‘little package’ ever again,” Draco rumbles, forgetting his intent to remain unaffected by Zabini’s antics. “That’s Ms Granger to the likes of you.”

“Oooh, ‘the likes of me’! Seems I’ve hit a nerve, eh?” Blaise chafes his hands together gleefully. “So my plan worked? You finally located your shrivelled ballsack and asked Hermione to be your date? Damn, I’m good… just ask me,” he cackles insufferably.

“No. Hermione asked me, actually.” Draco scratches at the back of his neck, refusing to meet Blaise’s laughing jet eyes.

“Blistering Bowtruckles, she’s a treasure! Is it too late to steal her away and introduce her to the ultimate Slytherin experience, I wonder?”.

“Fuck off – and what do you mean? What plan?” Draco paces toward his old classmate menacingly.

Zabini prudently skips behind his desk as he answers, “Why, I knew that you wouldn’t invite Hermione to be your date unless someone gave you a tiny shove in the right direction – either that, or you’d leave the poor deluded witch free and available for a better wizard,” Blaise smugly replies. “Win/win, really.”

“You are such a meddling arsehole – do you have any idea how upset Hermione was when I told her you’d coerced me into agreeing to take Astoria? What if she’d run off then and there and I’d never been able to make things right with her? Did you think about that when you were merrily scheming on how best to ruin our lives?” Draco savagely yells, his voice husking as his deep-seated terror of losing Hermione threatens to catapult him into full-blown hysteria.

“No – you were too busy shifting us around like fucking pawns on your amusing little chessboard to consider that we are real people, with emotional ranges infinitely deeper than your thimbleful of shallow dipshittery!” He has to clutch the back of the leather visitor’s chair to keep from throttling the other man.

Blaise’s habitual personality of the charming court jester drops away, leaving him looking unusually chastened and humble.

“Look – I’m sorry, Draco – I didn’t think – “

“No, that’s your problem, isn’t it? You treat life as if it’s one giant game – which is all well and good until someone gets hurt!” Draco is trembling with rage and distress. He dimly accepts that he is just as angry with himself as he is with Blaise… for hadn’t he failed to consider how his actions could have hurt Hermione? Hadn’t he stubbornly ignored the signs that she had deeper sentiments for him than sexual attraction alone?

The epiphany of his own selfish blindness about Hermione’s feelings dilutes his fury toward his friend. Draco stays silent as Blaise makes some weird stunted gesticulations; he comprehends that Blaise is experiencing a rare moment of speechlessness. _Ha. Inscribe this date into the history books._

“I might have been a bit harsh,” Draco offers, after the passage of uncomfortable moments. “I’m panicked at the thought that I may have lost Hermione… before I even could call her my own. Sorry, Blaise.”

Zabini exhales a ragged sigh of relief. “Mate, I’m the one who needs to apologize. You’re right – I didn’t consider Hermione’s reaction when you told her you were going with another woman… and a Pureblood witch, at that. She’s probably a little sensitive, given the flak she copped throughout school, and… well, you know.”

Blaise lays a tentative hand on Draco’s hunched shoulder. “Can we both agree I’m a bloody idiot with good intentions and occasional poor timing? Sorry, mate.”

Draco mimes a punch into Blaise’s stomach as Zabini’s eyes widen in alarm. “Apology accepted. But don’t interfere in our relationship ever again – or I’ll give you a hiding you won’t soon forget,” Draco’s threat is only half-playful.

“It’s official, then? Have you proposed yet? Did you go down on bended knee? I’m still the best man, right?” Blaise picks up his planning diary and pretends to rifle through its dates. “I can do a June ceremony; Saturdays work best for me,” he nods.

 _Buffoon_. Draco clicks his tongue against his teeth exasperatedly. “I won’t dignify your utter ridiculousness with an answer. Suffice to say, Hermione and I had a long, productive discussion and she is officially my girlfriend.” He can’t stop his chest puffing in pride as he reveals their status. _Bloody hell, I must look as goofily foolish as Macdolas when he raves about Ruibby_. His smile broadens.

“Brilliant! I really am happy for you, Draco. You are one undeservedly lucky, slick bastard. Just make sure you don’t fuck it up,” Blaise advises.

“Thanks – that’s the kind of unqualified support I know I can count on you for,” Draco dryly observes. “Now that we’ve covered my fledgling _histoire d'amour_ , what will you do about sourcing a date for Astoria?”.

Blaise shrugs dismissively. “Already taken care of: Theo agreed to escort her last week. You were never going to actually partner the blonde virago. See what a nice guy I am?” he grins.

“I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse about your ill-considered machinations, Zabini,” Draco’s mouth twists in response.

“Better, of course,” Blaise confidently affirms. “I look forward to the opportunity to tease Hermione about all this; she’s sitting in again on our next meeting with Flint on Wednesday. Don’t worry, I’ll play nice,” Blaise pre-empts Draco’s caution. “Promise.”

“You’d better – or you’ll answer to me.”

“Pah – save your ‘Dom’ persona for Granger… I’d bet a thousand Galleons that she loves that side of you.” Blaise cocks his head as Draco’s ears burn as he gallops for the door of Zabini’s office.

“You’re an obnoxious putz, Zabini!” Draco throws the sneer over his shoulder as he beats a hasty retreat.

Blaise’s knowing laughter follows him down the corridor.

 _Smug, obnoxious,_ perceptive _putz_ , Draco corrects.

* * *

_Monday 10 March 2003: PM_

“Take off your skirt.” Draco clenches his jaw as he takes a step back. His hands are aching to return to Hermione’s lithe, warm body; but he controls the compulsion. He needs this, and he believes she does, too.

“Why did you stop kissing me? I was enjoying that… very much,” Hermione’s voice is passion-slurred and sulky.

“I said – take off your skirt, Granger. Slowly. Be good, and I will reward you.” Draco watches in satisfaction as her pupils immediately flare and darken. _Excellent_. He has been anticipating this moment ever since that blockhead Potter interrupted their passionate clinch this morning.

“What happens if – if I’m bad?” Hermione rasps, her fingers freezing on the side hook of the garment under dispute.

“Punishment.” The single word results in her legs shifting restively as she stands beside his substantial bed.

“Mmm… you like that idea, don’t you? _Ma petite coquine_. Which will it be? Good or bad?” Draco makes an impatient ‘hurry up’ twirl with his left index finger.

“Both.” She actually pokes out her tongue at him as she unhurriedly unhooks her blue skirt and inches down the zipper, two metal teeth at a time. He backs up into one of the grey armchairs that face his bed, dragging it forward until he is positioned a mere foot away from the sluggishly-stripping brunette. Draco sits and grips the arm rests until his knuckles are the colour of snow. His control will be sorely tested tonight… and he cannot wait to push it to its limits. He plants his feet wide and adjusts his posture to relieve some of the pressure as his groin thrums and abuts his suit trousers.

“Now the shirt. One button at a time. Start at the bottom.”

Hermione begins at the top. _That’s two infractions_. Draco conceals his smile, keeping his mouth uncompromisingly stern.

Quirking one straight brow at him, the cheeky witch coos, “I hope you intend to finish what you started this morning… I’ve been thinking of you all day. Thinking of you wedged between my legs… thinking about squirming against you again… “ the tip of her tongue darts out of her mouth to wet her lips as she reaches the last button.

“Tonight, you have to say it.” Draco precisely enunciates the directive, enraptured by that tiny pink triangle as she slowly traces the contours of her moistened mouth.

“Say what?”

“Say all the words. Pussy. Cock. Suck. Lick. Fuck. Or whichever words you prefer. But you must be explicit and direct; you must clearly state your needs, or I won’t satisfy them. I do nothing without your consent. Do you agree?” Draco presses, his eyes now pewter pools of desire as her slate shirt gapes open.

“Yes.” Her response is instant and uncompromisingly resolute; Hermione thrusts out her breasts as she widens her stance. His eyes map her semi-nude form, not missing a single glorious dip and plane and angle.

His fingers flex as he commands, “Undo the cuffs: drop the shirt. And tell me the words you missed, when you were describing our tryst in the Interrogation Room this morning.”

A hesitation. _Have I misread her readiness?_

“All day, I’ve been thinking about your big cock… about how much I enjoyed wriggling my wet pussy against your thick, hard dick…” she pauses, letting the unfastened shirt fall to the floor at their feet. “Is that what you meant by ‘explicit’, Malfoy?” Hermione bats her eyelashes and smirks at Draco’s indrawn breath.

“Keep talking. Unclasp your bra. Slide the straps down your shoulders and arms, but don’t let it fall just yet.” His voice is deep and dark with passion. She obeys, watching him watch her as she holds the plain blue bra cups in place with her hands; her respiration is shallow and rapid.

“Let go.” The bra joins the shirt. Her rose nipples are already peaked, Draco’s eyes zeroing in on them instantly. He shifts infinitesimally in the modern armchair.

“ _Tu es magnifique ... tu me coupes le souffle_. Stroke your nipples,” Draco croons.

Every light sweep of her lively fingers shoots straight to his turgid length; he has to strengthen his hold on the chair to stop himself from reaching for her and completing the action himself. Hermione’s eyes half-close as her tugs become firmer and she keens in little pants.

“Remove your knickers. Hand them to me.”

Hermione hooks her thumbs beneath the blue cotton elasticized sides and makes an exaggerated straight bend down to her toes, dragging them to her feet in one smooth movement. She lifts one bare foot to slide free the panties, dangling them in front of Draco with a small swish.

He points to his lap. “Drop them.” They land on his straining lap as she saucily flicks her wrist.

“Sit down. Lie back. Open your legs.”

There is not a trace of indecision now; Hermione obeys with admirable promptitude. Her slender legs spread until he can see every curve and crease of her thighs and sex; the wetness seeping through her soft brown curls causes him to growl in anticipation. Draco shuffles to the edge of his seat, hovering nearer until he could kiss her if he wished. _Not yet_.

Before he clips out his next dictum, Draco looks his fill. In the glow of the twin lamplight, Hermione’s skin glows, warm tones that range from cream to olive to the occasional tan freckle. Her body is an Elysium of sensuality, youthfulness and health: matured, sexy, candid. He used to spend many pleasant hours guessing at the true shape of her pubescent form, surreptitiously stealing assessing glances to judge how much her school uniform and robes hid or delineated.

To be free to let his eyes drink her in like this is a boon he will never tire of. His male peers used to argue ceaselessly over which body part they preferred: breasts, legs, hair, bum, eyes; Draco couldn’t narrow down a preference – except that he secretly admitted to himself that he was a ‘Hermione man’.

To choose just one part of her physicality to worship is an abominable waste. He could write a sonnet on the shape of her pinkie toes (if his poetry weren’t utter trash). Her brain is the sexiest part of her, in any case; he aches to know everything about her, every stray thought and memory and honed philosophy and belief that she chooses to share with him.

_But for now, I will delight in exploring her body and sexuality to the bounds of both our control._

“Touch yourself. Show me what you like. Tell me what you like.” Draco doesn’t attempt to mask the hoarseness of his voice. He wants Hermione to know how deeply she affects him.

She gropes above her for a pillow and draws it down to prop beneath her head, allowing her to maintain eye contact. _Smart little Gryffindor_ , Draco silently approves.

Her legs part a little more as Hermione draws up her knees and curls her toes into the white duvet. She places her right hand oh her right thigh as her left hovers above her breasts; she lowers her palm to skim across her stiff nipples, just grazing the tips as her back arches off the bed a little. She repeats the action in a side-sweep, occasionally pinching the reddened peaks with her thumb and forefinger.

“I like to work up to the nipple pinches becoming just this side of painful,” Hermione’s voice almost jolts Draco out of the chair. “My breasts are very sensitive… I like to grasp one hard when I’m coming.”

She shuts her smoky cinnamon eyes for a heartbeat or two as her right hand moves to tease open the silky curls at the juncture of her thighs. Draco is transfixed by the sight of her index and middle fingers dipping inside her labial lips, stroking up and down vertically as she coats her fingers in the lower wetness of her tight channel.

“Sometimes I like to press my fingers to my clit and hold them there, before I start rubbing,” her voice has dropped to a husky whisper. “But mostly, I like to rub up and down around my pink pearl… to take my time while I fantasize…”

“Tell me your fantasy.” Draco can barely grunt out the words, given how desperately he is battling the overwhelming urge to replace her fingers with his own. He cannot look away from the erotic sight of his sexy little witch running her pink fingers around her inner lips and rolling her hips as she finds her rhythm.

“I have so many… hmmm… “

 _Bloody blue-balled hell_. Draco wonders if his jittery heart is healthy enough to withstand this titillating torture.

“I like thinking about being taken… _fucked_ … from behind,” Hermione carries on, lips tilted at the corners as a bead of sweat rolls down Draco’s forehead. He doesn’t move a muscle as she picks up her pace and her breathing quickens, her toes flexing with each cycle of raised and lowered hips and taut buttocks.

“Being told to get on my hands and knees, hearing my man unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers as he positions me on the bed, just so… I’m grasping the sheets above me as he turns my cheek to the cool fabric and presses on my back, so that my tight nipples will brush against the bedding with each thrust as he shuttles his big cock inside my wet pussy… he fingers me, before his cock replaces his hand, and then he keeps working my clit as he pushes in, he keeps pushing until he bottoms out and then pulls back until just his mushroom tip is still inside me…”

Her amazing chocolate eyes are still steady upon his grey orbs; Draco can see his feral reflection in her blown pupils.

“He thrusts back inside, shoves in his cock to the hilt… it’s almost too big, but I can take it, I’m dripping wet and I can feel every hard inch of him sliding against my pussy walls… he drags up my hips so that he is hitting my g-spot on every glide, and I’m shaking, I’m so close… “

 _Now_. Draco springs up from the chair like a panther, looming above Hermione to wrap his hand around her busy wrist and drag it away from her swollen pussy lips. She whines her protest.

“Turn around. Get on your hands and knees. You disobeyed me twice; this is your first punishment.” Draco fumbles at his belt buckle and somehow manages to undo it with one hand as Hermione pouts but quickly flips onto her front, at the bottom edge of the big bed. He unzips his trousers and shoves his pants and cotton boxers down to his knees, the metal of the belt jangling. He doesn’t bother removing the rest of his clothing; her nudity in comparison with his attire is insanely arousing.

He knows that Hermione expects him to fuck her immediately, or possibly deliver a few sharp spanks to her naked bottom. The delicious thought of lightly reddening her pert little bum has him growling. _Not tonight_. He splays her legs until he is pushed up against her, his tumescent cock nudging between her outer folds as she boldly pushes back against his pelvis.

“Hold still.”

Draco lays his hands on the sides of her smooth thighs, slowly running them up to her hips and swirling them around the rounded cheeks of her little arse, loving the texture of her skin and her incoherent moans and sighs. He pulls away to lower his face, rubbing his fine chin stubble against the curves of her rump and blowing on her sex from behind. Hermione startles as he chuckles and stands upright again. His left hand finds her damp core as his right pinches her nipple – hard. He slips two fingers inside her, adding a third as he realizes how soaked she is already. He tunnels them in and out carefully, upping his pressure and speed as her moans become louder and more urgent.

“Malfoy – please… please… “ Hermione’s voice and sex are both shaking. He takes away his hands before she can climax.

“Your second punishment,” Draco intones. He holds her hips high as she growls her fury and disappointment. He waits for her to stop thrashing and gnashing. His balls are in danger of bursting and his dick may do the same at any moment, he is wound so tightly.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me. Now. _Please_.” With the last snarled word, Draco slams into Hermione’s drenched pussy with a guttural yell, immediately feeling her sheath tighten and pulse around him. He pumps relentlessly, keeping his right hand clamped on her soft hip as he moves his left back to rub furiously at her clitoris.

He is lost to everything but the incredible feel of her, around and beneath him; his eyesight narrowed down to the curves of her back and tumbling hair and the salacious sight of his tumid cock thrusting in and out of her willing wet pussy.

Draco is dimly aware that he is babbling lewd things to Hermione in rapid French, while she repeats “please” and “yes”… until she simply screams “Draco!” as she begins to come apart underneath him. He manages to hold off his own roaring orgasm for mere moments as she milks his phallus in strong rolling compressions. He stutters, “Hermione!” as he finds his volatile peak deep inside her core.

Vision whiting around the edges, Draco keeps surging, gentling his thrusts as their pulses and spasms gradually recede. His knees are trembling as withdraws from her body and topples to the side, half-on and half-off the end of the bed.

_I’m destroyed. Annihilated. Wrecked. Absolutely rapturous._

He crawls up the bed to check on his beautiful witch. “Granger? Are you alright?” Draco combs a thick swath of tawny curls away from her damp forehead.

Hermione cracks open one blissed-out mocha eye. Her joyful smile mirrors his own. She rests her hand on the twitching pulse in his neck.

“Malfoy… can we do that again, please?” she winks.

“I might need a few minutes,” Draco rumbles as they laugh at their mutual states of euphoric obliteration. He feebly tries (and fails) to tug his white business shirt over his head as Hermione’s mirth grows.

“You haven’t even undone the buttons, sweetheart,” the endearment slips from her lips without her seemingly noticing it, intent as she is upon correcting his fashion failings. Draco’s heart leaps into his throat like a frog on a hotplate.

“And your shoes are still on!” Hermione clucks, her attempts to help him undress scuppered as he fiercely enfolds her in his arms and kisses the top of her head.

“Just let me hold you for a while, _ma_ _petite_.” She sneaks her own arms around his flanks and clings to him tightly as she utters a quiet, contented sigh.

“You are amazing, Draco.” Hermione snugs her head into his neck.

“You are a miracle, Hermione. Never forget that.”

_For I never shall._

* * *

French translation:

 _Tu es si incroyablement sexy, je ne me lasserai jamais de toi -_ You are so unbelievably hot, I can't get enough of you.

 _histoire d'amour_ – love story.

 _Ma petite coquine –_ my naughty little minx.

 _Tu es magnifique ... tu me coupes le souffle_ – You are gorgeous… you take away my breath.


	32. Jeopardy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all my wonderful readers.
> 
> I don't usually do much in the way of author notes (I loathe the sound of my own voice, even on 'paper'); I'm making an exception this time for the following reason.
> 
> I'd like to say a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has read this story, left kudos, commented, or spared it a quick look and maybe thought about checking it out once it's completed.  
> Each and every one of you have spurred me on to keep writing, to improve, to take your ideas and suggestions on board and to shamelessly 'borrow' catchphrases and concepts.  
> I treasure you, and I thank you all. Your support means the world to me.   
> xoxo VJ

__

_Tuesday 11 March 2003: AM_

“Malfoy, I am perfectly able to feed myself breakfast,” Hermione mock-grumbles as she nevertheless obediently opens her mouth to accept another proffered bite of jammy English muffin from Draco’s hand. She diligently chews and swallows before she adds, “And there is no real need for me to sit in your lap instead of a chair, by the way.”

Draco jostles his knees beneath her as she squeals and clings to his strong neck for support. “I disagree – see what just happened here? Bexley is notorious for its small, unpredictable earthquakes. Safety first and foremost, Granger.” He places a nibbling kiss against her smiling lips, licking delicately at the smear of sweet compote at one corner.

“Mmm – blackberry? Nice.” Winking, Draco picks up her favourite red mug and imbibes a hearty sip of her steaming coffee. “This blend does a wonderful job of washing away the bitter flavour of that horrid Gryffindor emblem on the side of the cup,” he jests.

“Hey – you have your own coffee, buster! It’s right there–“ Hermione grabs for it and swigs a hearty mouthful in retaliation.

_Just as well we both take it white with one sugar_. Hermione’s fingers automatically ruffle through the short flaxen hairs at Draco’s nape as she shares a smile with her cheeky boyfriend. He looks boyishly happy and untroubled as he sits contentedly in her tiny kitchen. Steady rain patters against the window panes as Macdolas hums along with the little radio’s 80s hits. The singular little elf has a particular fondness for Madonna’s catchy pop songs; hearing him trilling along to ‘Like a Virgin’ after dinner last night had been equal parts side-splitting and alarming. Draco must have agreed, given that he’d pointed his wand and shot off a quick ‘ _Muffliato’_ before they’d fled to the lounge room and settled in to enjoy another episode of ‘Pride and Prejudice’.

_I really don’t feel like going into work today._ Hermione wistfully toys with the idea of playing hooky this morning; the lure of spending the whole rainy weekday cuddled up with Draco, doing… well, doing whatever they please… is highly tempting. _But poor Bertie Baytun is still off sick with a bad case of adult mumblemumps… and I did agree to fill in for him in the ‘Bavarian Buoyant Broomsticks’ patent lawsuit proceedings in Court Five this afternoon._

Sighing, Hermione promises herself that she will definitely skive off work in the near future – responsibilities be damned. _Besides, Draco has his own obligations and employment schedule, though he hardly mentions either_. She decides there is no time like the present to quiz him on the oversight.

“Malfoy, how do you occupy your days? With work, I mean. You haven’t gone into the specifics,” Hermione prompts, wondering at his sudden stillness.

A long pause before Draco answers diffidently, “It might be easier to show you, rather than tell you, Granger. I doubt you’d believe me unless you had the physical proof right in front of you.” He searches her frank penny-brown eyes to assess the sincerity of her interest, before he adds, “Perhaps you could check out my third-floor workspace after dinner at the townhouse tonight?”.

“I’d love to,” Hermione nods vigorously. She widens her gaze in mock-astonishment. “Wait – you don’t have any dead wives hanging up in there, do you? Is that why you’ve been so secretive?”. She tickles his ribs lightly through his talc-white long-sleeved Henley cotton t-shirt.

“There goes my surprise,“ Draco states solemnly as his eyes sparkle with mirth. He easily catches her poking fingers with his hand and kisses her wrist. “Bluebeard had nothing on me,” he winks.

“I assure you that my income streams are one hundred percent legal, _ma petite_. And there are no wives whatsoever, be they buried or breathing.”

The idle talk of fictional wives makes Hermione’s heart beat faster. _I wonder if that will ever change_. The thought skitters into her head before she can stop it forming, making her blush. She grabs for his mug of java again to conceal her idiotic flush.

_Far too soon for that kind of overreaching silliness_ , she chides her overactive imagination. _Who’s to say Draco even wants to be married someday? He’s never mentioned wanting a wife… or children. Although, I suppose he_ was _being cautious about raising the topic of families, given his belief that our relationship would only ever be a temporary carnal tryst._

Macdolas’s high piping tones interrupt her daydreaming. “Macdolas has taken the liberty of packing Her Grace Lady Granger a nutritious and tempting luncheon box and freshly-squeezed orange juice,” he beams as he places a pristine metal lunch pail and matching thermos atop the cluttered square table. “Tuna fish, spinach and mayonnaise on wholemeal bread, just as Her Grace likes it!”. His ears quiver as he awaits her response.

Reluctantly, Hermione slides off Draco’s lap and crouches to hug the thoughtful sprite. “Thank you Macdolas; rest assured I will enjoy every bite and sip.” She flips open the gleaming lid. “Oh, and you’ve included a yummy chocolate brownie – how lovely! I can’t wait to try it,” she smiles warmly as Macdolas’s flappy ears quiver in pride and satisfaction.

Draco rises and snaps shut the lunch box with a smirk. “Chocolate is ever your Achilles heel, Granger,” he teases as he affectionately slides his hand around her waist and squeezes her hip. She doesn’t bother to deny the charge as the familiar wave of… of… perfect felicity swamps her being.

_Nope – my true Achilles heel is a beautiful, brawny blond wizard with a brain as sharp as his aristocratic cheekbones_. Hermione decides to keep that correction unspoken. She succumbs to the urge to hug him tightly once more before she must depart for the Ministry.

“Hey, is something amiss?” Draco runs his carbon eyes across her face and body as he pulls away slightly to hold her at arms’ length. “You look sad… have I said something wrong? I was only teasing about the chocolate crack,” he unnecessarily explains.

Hermione shakes her head as she shakes off her brief bout of melancholy. “No, I know. I’m just going to miss you, that’s all.” She blinks away any tell-tale dampness. “Tonight can’t arrive soon enough,” she confesses.

Draco’s blush at hearing her honest explanation zings from his neck to his ears in a matter of milliseconds, making Hermione heartily thankful her darker complexion isn’t as instantly indicative of discomfiture.

“I feel exactly the same way,” he recovers his composure to fervently assure her, running his left thumb across her plump lower lip; the wee touch makes her tremor.

“Granger... promise me you’ll be vigilant with your personal safety today? Please?” Draco frowns as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. “I wish you’d reconsider taking Macdolas with you.”

“Malfoy, I promise I’ll be extra careful – and poor Mac would be fed up with the bureaucratic tedium within ten minutes. I’m keeping my wand on my person at all times, see?” She taps at the almost indiscernible extra thickness hiding in the cuffed left sleeve of her biscuit-coloured blouse.

“We should have already been working on refreshing your duelling abilities – I've been selfish and distracted. Tonight, we’ll spend at least an hour practising,” Draco announces dictatorially. He crosses his arms and nods like a genie. Hermione smothers her smile and decides to let him have this round.

“Fine. But then we spend an hour doing what I desire,” she is delighted when his eyebrows rise and his ears pinken again at her suggestive leer.

“I’d better get moving,” Hermione reluctantly admits. But her feet make no move toward the Floo until Draco reaches for her hand.

“I’ll walk you out.” He picks up her lunch with his free hand and gifts her with one of his rare, slow-spreading, unguarded smiles.

_He really should come with a warning label_ , Hermione decides as she joyfully swings their clasped hands and smiles her goodbye to Macdolas.

_‘Highly likely to generate heart palpitations at any time.’_

* * *

_Draco’s cautionary tag should have a sub-clause about ‘kissing at your own risk’_ , Hermione meditates as she quickens her already swift steps; she’d meant to exchange a light peck with him before she’d stepped into her fireplace to depart for work, but it had morphed into a full-on French kiss within a heartbeat... a deeply passionate smooch that she’d had terrible trouble extricating herself from. Her lips are still tingling, and her pulse is zipping about like a mosquito zapper ( _how romantic you are, Hermione!_ ).

She rounds the last corner before her cubicle and skids to a halt. _Why is there a small crowd already gathered at my desk?_

Three heads turn and two make themselves scarce as Marilda declares, “Oh, to be young again! Ms Granger, I do declare you are one lucky witch... Look!” and her supervisor steps aside to reveal the source of her good-natured envy.

_Oh, my girlish gigglemugs_... Hermione’s unburdened hand flips to the centre of her chest involuntarily at the sight of the magnificent bouquet of pale pink roses dominating her dull desk. Approaching slowly, she cannot tear her gaze away from the unusual blossoms.

Unasked, Mrs Sandore happily supplies background information about the splendid blooms.

“These are Pierre de Ronsard roses, named for the sixteenth century French naturalist and poet. It’s not often you see these superb specimens – and in such numbers! Two dozen exactly, I believe.” Her supervisor shakes her head in wonderment.

“Mrs Sandore, can you please tell me their floriographic meaning?” Hermione faintly petitions, gently touching one of the densely layered petals. It is as silky as her otter kimono, with a subtle, sweet perfume. The colour of the roses graduates from an off-white outer lamina to a creamy taffy pink at their centres. Their ethereal beauty makes the bland workspace feel radiant, despite the constant downpour pummelling the street outside.

“Of course, dear. Pink roses in general can mean refinement, sweetness, elegance and femininity, while light pink blooms (such as these) convey gentleness, grace, joy and happiness. Quite perspicacious of your young Mr Malfoy, wouldn’t you say?” Marilda’s kind eyes twinkle. “And they came with the vase this time; it’s vintage Baccarat crystal, if my old eyes don’t deceive me.”

Hermione's throat closes as blithesome tears threaten to make an appearance. She silently accepts the small envelope Marilda passes her.

Noting her heightened emotional state, Hermione’s supervisor pats her gently on the upper arm. “Perhaps you should have a seat before you read that card, dear. Enjoy your lovely posy,” Marilda walks back to her office, sighing wistfully.

Sinking into her crappy old chair, Hermione fumbles to open the thick quality vellum with her letter opener. Eventually she manages to manoeuvre the small dagger-like tool beneath the upper flap and carefully slits it open.

The exquisite calligraphic script is unmistakeably Draco’s.

‘ _Ma glorieuse_ Hermione,

There are twenty-four roses in this bunch: one blossom for each day since you re-entered my life and made me the happiest man in the world.

These flowers remind me of you: multi-layered, complex, graceful, joyous, and exquisitely beautiful. I would not change a single thing about you; for you are perfect, just as you are.

Pierre de Ronsard once wrote, “And since what comes tomorrow who can say? Live, pluck the roses of the world today".

You are my rose, and my heart.

I am, and always shall be,

Your Draco.’

The tears fall unchecked as Hermione tucks the card back into its envelope and reverently slips it into the pocket of her maroon slacks.

_How on earth am I supposed to concentrate on my work now?_

* * *

_Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM_

The day is dragging by; Hermione must have looked at the dinky little clock on her desk at least thirty times since she dried her elated tears this morning and managed to set aside thoughts of Draco long enough to turn in a reasonably attentive performance at the job she is being paid to carry out.

_Well, I have given the_ appearance _of competence at least_ , she guiltily modifies _. I should have obeyed my impulse this morning and called in ‘sick’ – but then I would not have received my stunning flowers… oh, well._

She peruses the clock face again. 2.50PM: time to wend her way to Level Five and the second wine importation/exportation meeting she has been coaxed into attending. Slotting her file portfolio beneath her arm, Hermione idly considers in which direction Zabini and Nott have decided to move, given Marcus Flint’s initial resistance to agreeing to more regulatory testing of his ‘wonder wine’. And on a more personal level: do Blaise and Theo now know that she and Draco are a bona fide couple?

_I do hope Blaise doesn’t tease me; surely his professionalism will override his jokester persona? I suppose I still have my wand at the ready. It isn’t as though I haven’t already been dubiously inappropriate in the office this week… what with my bold personal announcement and mild threats to co-workers on Monday…_

The thought cheers her enough to pin a small smile on her face as she enters the conference room. Nott and Zabini immediately stand at her entrance; Flint is a little slower to his feet. Hermione breezes to her usual chair as she utters a polite, “Good afternoon.”

“Thank you for joining us once again, Ms Granger,” Blaise begins. He gives her a slow, charming grin that Hermione doesn’t entirely trust. She leaps in before he can say anything sly or provocative about her personal life.

“I trust this meeting won’t take long; I’m due at a Council of Magical Law court trial at four o’clock and I will have to make my way there a good fifteen minutes prior,” Hermione informs the room at large. She busies herself with arranging her files and setting out her note-taking materials.

“I’m sure we’ll reach a consensus well before then. Shall we begin?” Zabini remains standing as he looks across the long table at Marcus. “Are you moving forward with the extra testing with a reputable French oenologist, Flint?”.

Marcus curtly shakes his head. “There’s no need. The wine has already been rigorously tested, and my partner and I are not prepared to waste any more Galleons sending it for further unnecessary examination. We’ll take our chances with the MUKVA board.”

Theo arches a dark brow. “Is that your final decision? If so, I have no choice but to decline investing in the project. I have to say, Flint – it seems reckless and short-sighted of you to continue pushing for the exportation rights, if we are to believe the claims of your success and expertise in the wine industry.” Nott shrugs. “It’s your decision, of course; but you will indeed be wasting more Galleons if you continue along this path.”

The tension in the room is rising rapidly; Hermione slides the fingers of her right hand to the wand tucked into her left sleeve and seriously considers drawing it. Marcus Flint’s previously regular features are now twisted into a saturnine mask of bitterness, arrogance, and aggravation.

He shrugs and bares his teeth with a nasty laugh. “If anyone in this room is short-sighted, Nott, it’s you – but you will regret your decision. And what of you, Zabini? Are you putting in a good word for me with the Ministry, or are you choosing to err on the side of cowardice like your friend here?” Marcus spits out the words with another sneer.

The top of her vine wood wand is now resting in Hermione’s left palm, her fingers curled tightly around it as she holds her breath. Instinct is screaming at her that Flint presents a real and present danger; even Zabini’s usual happy-go-lucky demeanour has been replaced with an impassive visage and tightly-coiled muscles as he moves to stand closer to her, hands fisted at his sides.

“I agree with Theo – your business proposition is worthless if you don’t agree to the final stage of testing.” Blaise tilts his head as he coolly appraises his angry ex-classmate’s belligerent mien. “And I have to say, Flint – if this is the kind of unprofessional attitude you employ when you receive disappointing news… I am surprised that you are still in business.”

Hermione holds her breath as Marcus opens his mouth in a snarl; but the big Slytherin bites back whatever sharp reply he’d planned, his jaw clicking with the effort of his restraint. He grabs for his documents and stands up, his chair scraping rudely against the hard flooring. Blaise is now situated so near to Hermione that she can feel the heat emanating from his strong body, though he isn’t touching her directly. Theo stood when Marcus rose; the three men form a scalene triangle across the table.

“So be it.” Marcus’s expression has settled back into a bland mask. “I’d say thanks for your time, but it was a waste of mine.”

His eyes settle on Hermione. “No need to level that wand at me, Ms Granger – I’ll see myself out. I apologize if my behaviour made you feel uncomfortable; but I’d advise you to find better company to keep than this elitist pair of lickspittles. Good day,” he turns on his heel and exits the room with a few quick strides. The latch clicks softly into place as he closes the door behind him.

The three remaining Hogwarts alumni exchange relieved, non-plussed looks. Blaise is the first to break the silence.

“Well, that was… interesting? Disturbing? Enlightening? All of the above?” He rests a light hand on Hermione’s trembling shoulder. “You OK, Granger? I’m sorry I asked you to sit in; I didn’t realize Marcus still has a hair-trigger temper.” Zabini’s contrition seems sincere.

Theo is running his hand through his hair compulsively. “Blaise – that was ugly. _Really_ ugly. I think we need to tell Potter about this. Right now,” and he cuts his eyes meaningfully to Hermione as Blaise draws a sharp breath.

“Wait – Theo, are you saying that you think Marcus Flint is one of the roofie perpetrators? Truly?” Hermione gasps. The shoulders that had begun to relax with Flint’s departure hunch over once more as she swiftly recalls her recent interactions with the man and compares them to that dreadful night at the Wonky Donkey.

“No… Flint’s voice isn’t the same as – as the man I met in that pub… “

“Voices can be glamoured too, Hermione,” Theo gently reminds her. “And who’s to say that Marcus wasn’t downplaying his knowledge of wine-making and magical additives, in our earlier meeting?”. Nott turns his attention to Zabini.

“Blaise – was it your idea, or Flint’s, to ask Hermione to consult with us on the exportation meetings? Maybe he got off on being close to her again, without any of us realizing his true identity or the threat he posed.”

Zabini shuts his eyes and tilts back his head as he tries to remember the circumstances. “When Marcus first approached me to ask about the possibility of getting a boost from the Ministry to break into the wine market, I think I mentioned the need to run through the legalities… and he said that he’d heard that our old school mate Granger was a great one for thoroughly knowing the ins and outs of the law,” Blaise slowly replies, opening his eyes to gaze down at Hermione with intense disquiet and guilt.

“It suited my other purpose of getting to know you as Draco’s ‘significant other’… so I jumped at the suggestion. Shit! Theo – if you’re right about this – I’m responsible for putting Hermione in the same room as her attacker not once, but twice! Fucking hell,” Blaise agitatedly rubs his big hand over his face as Hermione freezes in place.

“I’m going to find Potter and tell him about this immediately,” Theo is already moving for the door. “And I’ll ensure that Flint has left the building. Blaise – stay with Hermione. Do not leave her side, understand?” Theo’s clover-green eyes are hard and fierce.

“Of course – go, go,” Blaise gestures impatiently. “I’ll look after her.” Theo doesn’t wait any longer, shooting out the door with impressive speed.

“Hey – I can look after myself,” Hermione indignantly corrects, scrambling to her feet and planting her hands on her hips, desperate to throw off her weakness in freezing up at the idea that Marcus Flint is one of her would-be rapists. “I don’t appreciate you talking about me as though I’m a pathetic helpless doll or a child, Zabini.”

“Of course you can look after yourself, Granger – you’re the ‘Brightest Witch of Your Age’, and a total bad-arse to boot,” Blaise murmurs conciliatorily. “But my will to live is strong, and Draco would tear me in quarters with his pale bare hands if I didn’t stick to you like glue right now. Have pity on me? Please? I’m already top of his Shit List for the stunt I pulled with the Spring Equinox Ball.”

_Good. I hope Draco tore you a new one_. Hermione narrows her eyes as she considers adding insult to injury. Blaise senses her condemnation; he holds out his hands in a placatory gesture.

“I’m sorry, Granger – I had the best of intentions about the Ball thing… I just didn’t consider that Draco wouldn’t tell me to blow it out my bum straightway,” he reasons. “I thought it would spur him into asking you himself.”

“Draco doesn’t believe he deserves to be with me.” Hermione feels suddenly drained: whether it’s due to the inevitable crash after her recent adrenaline rush, or because Draco’s lack of self-worth is potentially a big problem for their nascent relationship, she cannot determine. _Probably both_. She plonks down into her seat again and rests her head on her hands. Blaise seats himself beside her and copies her pose. His large dark eyes are friendly and sympathetic.

“Want to talk about it? I’m a good listener,” he prompts, blinking his long lashes guilelessly.

“No – really, I am!” Blaise asserts as Hermione involuntarily lets loose a rusty laugh at his claim. “And before you say it… yes, I do talk a lot (only because my word is gospel and solid gold, you understand), but I am perfectly capable of meaningful, comprehensive listening, too. Give me a try – you won’t be sorry,” he lazily leers.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Hermione sighs.

“No, I really can’t. I’m one sick puppy,” Blaise confesses without a hint of shame. “Go on – I promise not to judge you for any kinks that you’re comfortable divulging. Can’t say the same for Malfoy – he’s one dirty little dog– ”

“He is not!” Hermione hotly denies, before she realizes Zabini is baiting her. “You arse.” But she is feeling better… much less shocky. Blaise’s gentle teasing has worked wonders.

“Has Draco… has he mentioned why he feels so unworthy? I mean, apart from the Malfoy name being blackened from supporting Voldemort. But that wasn’t his fault – he was just a boy,” Hermione quickly defends.

Blaise shrugs. “Hermione, Draco cut off all contact with me and Theo, after his trial and sentence was complete. Like, one night he was out partying with us until dawn – and the next, he’d vanished. We turned up unannounced at the Manor a few times; Narcissa insisted that Draco was fine, he was just off having an extended holiday, at an undisclosed location on the Continent. That’s how she put it – ‘the Continent’. The Malfoys embody ‘posh’ on a whole other scale, huh?” he grins.

At Hermione’s restless look, Zabini continues, “Anyway, we left messages, sent owls… didn’t hear hide nor hair of the platinum prick until he summoned us to the White Wyvern a few weeks back. Draco apologized for his lengthy silence, but refused to tell us the whys and wherefores. He’s always been a deeply secretive bastard, though.’

“As to your question: Draco hates himself for what he did – even if it was done to protect his parents. He rarely talked about it, except to say that he’d accepted that his lineage deserved to die out, with him. We were all a bit fu– messed up in those days, after the War. I didn’t put much stock in it, at the time.” Blaise drums his long fingers on the table. “I hope he doesn’t let his gnawing doubts foul up the good thing you two have going.”

Hermione can’t help her blush, before her lurking fear forces her to query, “What has Draco told you about us, Blaise? Has he indicated that he… doesn’t think we’ll last?”. She dreads the response; but she has to know.

“Are you kidding? When Draco told me yesterday he was partnering you to the Ball and that you are now ‘officially his girlfriend’ – nice work on that, by the way, you’re a gutsy little Gryffy! – he couldn’t wipe the smile off his homely mug,” Blaise laughs.

He sobers as he leans in to ask, “I do have one nagging question, though…”

“Yes?” Hermione braces herself; _goodness knows what Zabini is likely to come up with next_.

“Did you really eject your stomach contents all over Malfoy? Was it on purpose? Because, Granger – talk about the ultimate revenge on your childhood bully! High-five!” Blaise picks up, positions, and firmly slaps her flinching palm before Hermione understands his intent.

She snatches it back with a sputter. “No! Of course not! Well, I mean, yes – I did vomit on him, but not intentionally…” Hermione scowls as Blaise’s cackles intensify.

Theo’s re-entry into the conference room cuts him off mid-chortle. “I can’t locate Harry – and that tight-lipped pack of Aurors are hell-bent on keeping his current whereabouts a mystery to anyone outside their inner sanctum,” he announces without preamble. “I’ve left messages and sent Potter an owl. The good news is that Flint has definitely left the Ministry; one of the Aurors witnessed him getting into some kind of minor fracas with another punter as to who got to use a Floo alcove first. Both men were escorted outside.”

“You’ve done us proud, my good buddy,” Blaise gets up from the table to pull his retreating friend into a squashing hug; he dances them around the head of the table as the smaller man squiggles in protest.

“Get off me, you gregarious git,” Theo extricates himself from Zabini’s sturdy arms and hurries to Hermione’s side.

“Hermione? May we escort you home? You must have had a bad fright from all of this,” Theo’s expression is troubled as he holds out his hand in invitation.

“I have, rather,” Hermione hesitatingly admits, as she accepts Theo’s assistance and rises from her chair. “But I still have that patent lawsuit trial to attend – and it’s too late notice to cancel, or ask another to step in. Besides, you just confirmed that Flint has left, and we don’t definitively know that he is involved.’

“Would you mind walking me to the Council of Magical Law Courtroom instead, please? I’ll be surrounded by people in there, and I promise to head straight home after the session is over,” Hermione offers a compromise.

Blaise and Theo share some sort of strange, wordless male communication at her suggestion, eyebrows rising and falling and mouths pursing and flattening.

“Guys! I’m standing right here…” she says in exasperation.

“Draco won’t be happy when he hears about this…” Blaise slowly comments, as Theo huffs out a resigned suspiration.

“Draco’s not the boss of me,” Hermione snaps, regretting her childish retort as soon as it leaves her mouth.

“Ah, Granger – you keep telling yourself that,” Blaise snickers.

“How long will the court proceedings take? We’ll return for you then; there’s no way you’re wandering about the Ministry on your own, not today,” Theo promulgates, with unexpected steeliness.

“Fine. Today’s session is scheduled to last exactly one hour; would you return at five PM, please?” Hermione softens her glower. _It’s nice to have people looking out for me_ , she contemplates wistfully. _Even if they are bossing me needlessly at present_.

“Shall we?” Zabini crooks his elbow and bequeaths his most captivating smile. Hermione can’t help but crack a smile at his exaggerated lady-killer posturing, as she picks up her work portfolio and curls her hand onto his arm; Theo falls into step on her other side as they depart the room and make their way to Courtrooms on Level Ten.

* * *

The bang of the gavel jolts Hermione out of her glazed-eyed boredom.

“We unanimously find in favour of the plaintiff, Ms Elsabeth Ziegler, C.E.O. of Bavarian Buoyant Broomsticks, and order the defendant, Mr Wilfred Barker-Webb, Director of Excelsior Sporting Equipment, to pay all court costs and damages to the sum of six thousand, seven hundred and nineteen Galleons, fourteen Sickles, and twenty-seven Knuts. Mr Barker-Webb’s infringement of British Magical Patent Law will be permanently recorded and all design blueprints and existing models of the ‘Excelsior Eighteen’ are to be immediately collected and destroyed.”

Thwack! The gavel smacks again and Ms Ziegler pumps her fist in triumph, sparing a lone venomous glare for her defeated opponent. Hermione cannot summon any pity for the weedy, unassuming man in the blue bow tie and dull brown robes, though he does look as if tears are imminent.

Checking the large clock on the wall, Hermione is startled to see the Council has wrapped up the entire staid affair in under forty-five minutes; they hadn’t even needed to call upon her, as the case had been cut-and-dried from the start. Barker-Webb’s goose had been well and truly cooked when Ms Ziegler’s lawyer had produced incontrovertible evidence of the theft of their company’s unique broomstick design.

_The daft wizard ‘hid’ the stolen blueprints in his unlocked office desk drawer – what did he expect?_ Hermione shakes her head in disbelief as she begins gathering her goods and chattels. The sedated hubbub continues as Hermione decides that she needn’t wait for Blaise and Theo to return at five o’clock; staying in a deserted courtroom seems counter-productive to ensuring her safety, in any case.

Following the small crowd out of Courtroom Number Six, Hermione is conscious of a persistent sense of having forgotten something… she checks her portfolio, but is satisfied it contains everything she’d brought with her.

Her steps falter as she pats at her maroon trouser pockets – the comforting small bulge of Draco’s beautiful card is missing. _It must have worked its way out unnoticed while I was fidgeting in an effort to stay awake back there!_ _I can’t leave it there for the cleaners to find!_ Without thinking through her actions, Hermione turns tail and races back to the shadowed courtroom.

The main lights have been extinguished, but half a dozen lamps are still lit. Making her way to where she’d been sitting, Hermione crouches to snatch up the familiar cream envelope with a cry of relief. Quickly checking that the card is inside, she sticks it into the inner pocket of her buttermilk-coloured jacket and hustles back out the door.

The corridor is deserted; she must have tarried in the courtroom longer than she’d realized. Deciding that it never hurts to be prepared, Hermione slides her wand out of her sleeve and transfers it to her right hand as she marches toward the stone steps leading down to Level Nine.

The staircase is dim, illuminated by irregularly-spaced, old-fashioned sconces that flicker erratically and cast peculiar shadows along the stone walls. The effect usually strikes her as romantic; today, it appears ominous and not a little creepy. Gripping her trusty wand tighter, Hermione resolves to mention the need for better lighting at the next Workplace Health and Safety meeting. She descends the steps as quickly as she dares, her sturdy shoes clattering on the uneven rocky surfaces.

She has almost made it to the halfway point (the sharpest, blindest curve in the set of thirty-odd stairs) when the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning. Hermione whips around her head, catching the merest glimpse of dark hair, cruel lips and hateful eyes, before she is simultaneously hit with an “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” and a strong push in the middle of her back. Her wand flies to parts unknown as she plunges down the hard stone steps.

Instinct has Hermione tucking herself into a ball to protect her head; her joints bear the brunt of her uncontrolled, terrified descent. Hideous pain crashes into her: knees, hips, elbows, and a horrible crack to one of her ankles that has her vocalizing a high-pitched scream that echoes mockingly up and down the granitic curving corridor.

Tumbling to the bottom, Hermione’s shriek dies away, replaced by deliberate, heavy steps that thud closer to her position. She lifts her head long enough to see she has washed up at the entrance of the small vestibule separating the access stairwell from Level Nine proper; it is dark and unoccupied.

Terror grips her as a harsh masculine voice taunts, “Where’s that legendary fire gone, Golden Girl? No one’s going to save you here, Hermione – you’re ours now, baby girl.” The footsteps halt.

Pain recedes to the background as her survival reflex kicks in. Hermione lifts her aching head to squint into the gloom, desperately hoping for any advantage to improve her plight. Her vision is blurred and patchy; she suspects that the darkness that surrounds her is being partially supplied by an encroaching head injury.

_I won’t let him touch me – I won’t let him take me – think, woman, think!_ She grinds her teeth, finding her fury and her mettle as her famous brain shuffles and discards idea after idea. _Yes! I have to try._

Blocking out the continuing gleeful gibes of her attacker, Hermione taps into her deepest, strongest magical core. She concentrates on fixing and projecting her current position and dire situation in a wordless, powerful summons. The horror-stricken young witch senses that this is her only chance, before the darkness descends and claims her for its own.

**_MACDOLAS! MACDOLAS! Help me, please, help me – MACDOLAS…_ **

Hermione’s last mental image as she succumbs to the blackness of oblivion is the memory of Draco, standing beside her Floo fireplace that morning and smiling at her as though she’d hung the moon and set the stars.

**_Draco…_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted verse excerpt is from ‘Sonnets pour Hélène’ by Pierre de Ronsard.


	33. Horrification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended this chapter to be significantly longer (as there is much more to come!) but I am splitting it up into two or more chapters so as not to bloat it overmuch, and also to keep my promise of a speedy update.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been waiting patiently (perhaps anxiously) on the edge of their seat; I really appreciate how involved you are in this little story.  
> You guys 'truly are the best', as Hermione says.  
> xoxo VJ.

__

_Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM_

**_Draco…_ **

He almost trips down the first floor stairs as Hermione’s voice rings clearly inside his mind; Draco grabs at the banister and manages to right himself just in time, freezing in a panicked jolt.

 _What the fuck was that?_ Even though he is certain he is alone in the townhouse, Draco swings his argent head from side to side to look for Hermione as he leaps down the last four steps in a single, joint-jarring hurdle.

“Hermione? _Granger?!?_ ”. Draco gallops through the empty lounge room, wide grey eyes noting the lack of Floo activity and the unmistakable feeling of an otherwise unoccupied house. He loops around the sofa and charges for the kitchen, knocking over one of the tall bench stools as he clatters to a stop by the table. The uneasy, indefinable sensation that has malingered with him all day has ratcheted from ‘low-level’ to ‘critical’ in a handful of seconds. He can hear his breakneck heartrate thundering in his ears, and he is puffing and huffing as though he’s just run a Muggle marathon. The gut instinct that kept him alive during Sixth and Seventh Years is screaming at him that something is terribly, dangerously wrong.

“HERMIONE!?!” _Will his Legilimency work – are they somehow mind-linked now?_ A brief flashback of the wondrous ‘mating’ of their magical cores flashes through his mind like quicksilver.

 ** _Hermione… Hermione… ma petite…_** Draco closes his eyes and forces his psychic voice to remain calm, concentrating strenuously as he frantically searches for her signature life force – her aura, for want of a better term – in the vastness of time and space.

His telepathic casting uncovers only a dim shadow of her recognizable transcendental ‘spoor’; Draco receives a fleeting impression of… unconsciousness? Forced stupor? It is a numb, near-total blackness that buckles his knees.

_No – no – NO –_

Hysterical dread threatens to engulf him as he stumbles out of the kitchen and back into the living room. A lone logical thought manages to bypass his panic; Draco grips the mantelpiece of the hearth as he screams aloud, “MACDOLAS!”.

He waits, his long fingers pressing into the marble so hard that he is surprised he hasn’t cracked his phalangeal bones or the veined border’s surface.

Nothing. The acid ball of terror burning in his guts becomes a flaming meteor. Though Macdolas is unquestionably a free elf, he has never before failed to answer Draco’s summons.

 _What the fuck has happened?_ Draco’s loathsome Dark Mark begins to sear as every cell in his body rebels at the certainty that Hermione – and possibly Macdolas – are facing the gravest of dangers. He draws on his central reserve of diamond-hard power to suppress his shocked fear and activate his ice-cold, intelligent rationality.

 _The Bexley flat, or the Ministry?_ Hesitation vanishes as Draco scoops a pinch of green powder, steps into the Floo and shouts, “The Ministry of Magic!”.

* * *

His usual reflexive balance is shot to shit: Draco bangs his elbow as he catapults out of one of the Ministry’s Floo alcoves and skids along the wide polished floor. The sharp pain barely registers as his wild eyes scan the busy atrium. The noise is incredible; it sounds as though a thousand voices are excitedly babbling in every corner of the bustling hub.

Barrelling toward the nearest elevator, Draco ignores the alarmed looks he is attracting from passers-by. He catches a brief glimpse of his reflection and doesn’t wonder that witches and wizards alike are clearing his path without him having to work for the unobstructed passage. His hair is alternately plastered to his skull with flop sweat or sticking up in erratic, matted clumps, and his juniper green chambray shirt sports large damp patches beneath his armpits.

Draco makes a half-arsed effort to swipe at his moist face and hairline with his sleeve once he is safely inside a mostly empty elevator cabin. He stabs at the button for Level Two and uses his height and breadth to block the entrance to a few foolish would-be late boarders.

“Fuck off.” His snarl, coupled with the savage glare etched into his grim features, scares off the wannabe riders and the elevator lurches upward. He feels like beating his head against the lift’s walls, if only to subdue his brain’s propensity to relentlessly supply him of images of every potential horror scenario of Hermione’s unknown plight.

 _Come on come on come on come on – finally!_ Draco doesn’t wait for the elevator door to open fully and hears a consequent rip as his one of his sleeves catches on a rough edge. Tearing through the foyer, he turns left for the Wizengamot Administrative Services Division and nearly collides with a sobbing older woman as she stands beside Hermione’s cubicle.

He recognizes her at once. “Mrs Sandore! Where’s Granger – where’s Hermione, Hermione Granger?” Draco implores, as she turns her tear-wet face upon hearing his urgent supplication.

Marilda lays a shaky hand on his arm as he ignores polite etiquette and grabs her other. “Mr Malfoy – oh, I didn’t know how to contact you, it’s all happened so suddenly–“

“Where is she?!?” Draco interrupts, as Marilda starts a fresh bout of tears. He manfully resists the itch to shake information out of the poor witch. “Where is Hermione, Mrs Sandore?” he repeats, gentling his tone and volume.

Hiccoughing, Marilda replies, “St Mungo’s – it’s the most terrible thing, I can’t believe it – Mr Nott went with them– “

But Draco has already swivelled and sprinted away, reversing his route with fleet feet as his teeth clamp together like crocodile jaws.

 _She’s alive… she’s injured… but she’s alive…_ Draco cobbles together the dregs of his self-control again as he hurtles into and out of the lift and barges back to the Floos. He is shoulder-checking anyone who doesn’t possess the smarts to stay out of his way, and he is positive that he has never moved this fast in his entire life.

_And what exactly did Hermione’s supervisor mean when she said, ‘Mr Nott went with them’?_

Draco has to put it from his mind or risk a splinching. Another dash of Floo powder. “St Mungo’s Hospital!”.

* * *

_I never thought I’d ever be relieved to see the bedraggled red brick building with the faded banner proclaiming ‘Purge and Dowse, Ltd’_ , Draco muses as he quick-steps through the open window of the defunct ‘department store’. The persistent rain hasn’t abated, adding another layer of gloom to the dreary edifice.

“St Mungo’s,” Draco impatiently repeats to the mannequin clad in a shabby green dress, who nods slightly as his environs seamlessly shift from an empty derelict shop to a crowded hospital reception area. The harassed receptionist doesn’t spare him a sideways glance as she snaps at the disgruntled, pushy crowd.

“One person at a time! Show some respect and find your dignity! Savages,” she mutters the last to herself as she points the business end of her wand at a skinny wizard with an unwieldy camera slung around his neck. “No press! Don’t make me use this, you snooping scum!”. The man prudently chooses to skedaddle as a pair of huge security guards plod in his direction.

Deciding that the no-nonsense Welcome Witch is his best bet, Draco jumps the shoddily-formed queue without a second thought, baring his even white teeth at the few brave souls who voice their displeasure at his antics.

“I need to see Hermione Jean Granger – NOW.” Draco’s voice is as clear as a bell and as urgent as an emergency bunker klaxon. The aggravating noise of the restless crowd temporarily falls away as his imperious tone garners their mercurial attention.

Sadly, his Big Bad Wolf voice doesn’t have the same effect on the pragmatic receptionist; she keeps her eyes trained on the admissions form in front of her as she scrawls down copious notes and sniffs disparagingly.

“Yeah, you and every other sleazebag reporter in this town, pal,” the zaftig Welcome Witch scoffs. “Get lost, or I call over Troll One and Troll Two to do their worst,” she jerks her head in the direction of the gargantuan security guards. “Next!”.

Draco pushes past the piddly rope barrier, effortlessly plucking the form out of her hands and perusing it with lightning speed. _There_ – H.J.G., First Floor, Ward 2B, Private Room 7. He squints as he tries to make out the squiggles beside her name.

“Oi! How ruddy dare you, Blondie!” the receptionist indignantly snatches back the piece of parchment and motions at the guards. “Boys! Toss out this grabby lout, and make sure he feels it for the rest of the week!”.

 _They’re not really trolls, surely? Aren’t they just a couple of incredibly ugly, alarmingly large blokes?_ _Whatever_. Draco prepares to stun them to kingdom come, growling as he whips out his hawthorn wand and backs away from the reception desk.

“Stand down! He’s with me!” Every head in the busy entrance foyer swings to find the source of the authoritative command, Draco included.

Later, he will marvel at the bitter irony of Harry ‘ _Lightning-Strike’_ Potter saving his bacon… yet again. For now, Draco moves to Potter’s side without a second thought. The ‘trolls’ look disappointed but resigned as they trudge back to their positions.

Harry nods respectfully at the Welcome Witch. “Sorry, Rosedriah – I should have left his name at the desk, there wasn’t much time– “

“That’s perfectly alright, Harry love. Any friend of yours is tolerated… up to a point.” Rosedriah’s beaming smile at Harry quickly shifts to a warning sneer at Draco. He ignores it as his panic swells, stronger than ever.

“Potter – don’t just fucking stand there, let’s go!” Draco snarls as Harry hooks his hand into the back of Draco’s perspiration-damp green collar and yanks him back.

“You’re headed in the wrong direction, Romeo – come on, it’s this way,” the Auror tows him through a set of double doors and down the corridor leading to the Artefact Accidents Ward. Candles float around them at varying levels. The hum of the reception area is muted down to hushed voices and the shuffle of purposeful feet; Draco’s and Harry’s slapping shoe soles on the wooden floors are a stark insult to the subdued atmosphere. 

“Potter – how is she? Tell me the truth – I have to know,” Draco grits out as they hurry past wards and rooms. He is sweating nervously again, though the air around them is cool and antiseptically clean.

“Hermione is still unconscious – don’t freak out, wait for the rest – but the Healers are confident she will make a full recovery. They’ve run all the diagnostic spells and have determined that she suffered a mild concussion when she was pushed down the stairwell – her right ankle is broken, and she’s covered in bruises and some scrapes, but she’s going to be OK.” Harry imparts the information while they are still racing down the hall; he turns back in puzzlement as Draco shudders to a halt.

 _Unconscious… concussion… broken… bruised… ma chérie, qu'est-ce qu'ils t'ont fait?_ The corridor is spinning unpleasantly as Draco careens into the nearest wall, his nerveless fingers scrabbling at the plaster for support. Potter grabs his unresisting shoulder and props him in place before he can collapse.

“Oh, shit – Malfoy, didn’t you hear me? I said, ‘full recovery’ – Hermione is going to be fine.” Potter’s alarmed voice sounds as though it is coming from the end of a long tunnel.

“Buck up – you’re too big for me to carry you the rest of the way – and if you want to see her so desperately, ending up horizontal on a gurney isn’t the way to make that happen,” Harry shakes him hard enough that Draco’s teeth clang together. Ire stiffens his spine.

“Bloody quit rattling me, Potter – I’m alright. What the hell happened? Someone pushed her down a fucking stairwell – at the Ministry?!?” Draco’s anguished, gravelly query has a couple of startled heads popping out of doorways. Harry pays them no heed, gripping Draco’s arm as he propels them down the hallway once more.

“Look, I’m not one hundred percent clear on what happened myself – I’ll tell you everything I know once the dust has settled, and we’ve completed our interviews and interrogations. What I can tell you, is that somehow Hermione summoned your bodyguard house elf straight to where she was huddled at the bottom of the steps, and the clever little bugger blasted Marcus Flint into the wall so hard, the fucker’s in a coma.”

“Macdolas – Macdolas saved her?” Draco croaks. _You absolute, spectacular, shining Scottish star._ With a huge effort of will, he sets aside the knowledge of Flint’s involvement, for now.

“He certainly did,” Harry confirms. They round a corner; two austere-faced Aurors stand either side of a closed door. They nod at Potter and step aside. An ashen Theo Nott is pacing a little further down the hallway.

Draco ignores them all as Potter confirms, “Here we are.” Before he completes the action of opening the door handle, Harry warns him, “You’ve got five minutes, Malfoy. Stay out of the way of the Healers, and if she regains consciousness, leave the questions for later. We’re expecting her parents to arrive at any moment, too. Got it?”.

“Yes, yes,” Draco would donate his left eye if it were required to pass through that door. Harry pushes it open, Draco hot on his heels. The private room is reasonably well-appointed, albeit lacking in any style other than ‘sterile and bland’. The strong lights shining down from the ceiling and corner lamps are bright but unflattering in the modest space.

His view of the hospital bed is blocked by a tall male Healer, who is in the process of shining a small torch into Hermione’s eyes. The medico nods in satisfaction before moving away to scribble down some notes on her medical chart.

Draco’s vision shrinks; all he can see is the unconscious woman lying on the spartan bed. His heart stops as he perceives her unnatural stillness; the beleaguered organ only bumps back into gear when Hermione’s chest rises and falls in a gentle but even pattern of respiration.

His cardiac muscles spasm again as he runs his eyes up and down her insensate form. A large bandage covers her left temple and part of her cheek; there is a fine spiderweb of abrasions marring the tender skin of her jaw and chin. The maroon trousers and light-coloured shirt and jacket Hermione had donned this morning are gone, replaced by a drab blue hospital gown that covers her from neck to knees. Her forearms and shins are dotted with myriad bruises, ranging in size from a freckle to a grapefruit, and her right ankle is splinted carefully in place.

 _Oh, my poor darling_... Draco unfreezes, approaching the bed as Hermione breathes softly again. He trembles as he reaches out to hold her right hand; it is limp, but its warmth gladdens him immensely. Rubbing her scraped knuckles, Draco quietly croons, “Hermione, _ma petite_ – it’s Draco, sweetheart. I’m here. You’re going to be OK, do you hear me, Granger? You’re going to wake up and start sassing the Healers in no time at all, _ma douce et courageuse petite lionne_.”

Stroking a few wild curls off her forehead, Draco kisses her cool brow and whispers, “You’re going to be fine, Granger. I won’t let anything happen to you – I’d do anything to keep you from harm. _Anything_. I’m sorry – I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you n-needed m-me –“ his throat closes, the last few words fading to a stuttered squeak as the horror of what could have happened crashes in on him like an avalanche.

 _You can fall apart later. Get your shit together._ Draco’s inner voice stiffens his spine and marginally restores his fragile equilibrium. A sad little voice interrupts his internal monologue.

“Macdolas is sorry, Master – he cannot leave Her Grace Lady Granger when Master Malfoy calls,” his chief steward sniffles. The little house elf is perched awkwardly atop a visitor’s chair on the far side of the bed; he is standing on it to compensate for his lack of height as his woebegone cabbage green eyes remain fixed on Hermione’s wan face.

“Macdolas won’t leave her Grace’s side until Her Grace is safe.” The mannikin’s gnarly hands twist ceaselessly around a crumpled black and green velvet oddity that may once have served as a hat.

“Macdolas – look at me, please. You have nothing to be sorry for, little mate. You saved Hermione’s life tonight – _you_ saved her.” Draco imbues the hoarse words with as much of his heartfelt gratitude and awe as he can muster. He has to pause as his emotions clog his throat again. The tears he is holding at bay by a thin skein are dampening his eyelashes. He tries again.

“I can never thank you enough, Macdolas. If there is ever anything I can do for you, you need only speak the words. Hell, I’ll buy you a new outfit every day of the week, if you like… starting with replacing your current Tudor costume – you’ve gotten some blood on it. Have you been seen to by the Healers yet?” Draco nods at the dark smear marring Macdolas’s apple green and black brocade-and-silk fitted tunic and short velvet pantaloons.

“Is not Macdolas’s blood, Master Malfoy… Macdolas held Grace Lady Grace’s head off the cold stone after he finds her…” the major-domo quavers as his swollen eyes well up. “Her Grace – she will wake, Master Malfoy?” he implores.

“She will wake, Macdolas,” Draco fiercely pledges. Seeing Hermione’s dried blood on Macdolas’s clothing has his gorge rising again. Keeping a firm hold of her little hand, he snaps at the Healer in the corner.

“Healer – why hasn’t she come to yet? Can’t you administer a potion, or enact the appropriate spell?” He realizes he is being unnecessarily harsh (and rude), but he is sick with worry and trepidation at Hermione’s continued stupor.

Harry intervenes as the Healer frowns. “Sorry, Healer Carpathia – this is Hermione’s boyfriend, Draco Malfoy. I’d like to tell you he’s not usually this haughty and demanding, but that would be a lie.”

The physician’s wrinkled brow clears at Potter’s little ‘joke’. “Ah. Understandable, but I won’t abide any further insolence – unless you’d rather be indefinitely banished to the reception atrium, Mr Malfoy?”. Healer Carpathia raises an eyebrow as Draco sullenly shakes his head.

“I thought not. Well, since you asked so politely: we’ve determined that Ms Granger received a blow to her cranium that has resulted in a mild concussion. In cases such as these, it’s best to allow the patient to return to full consciousness at her own pace, unless the insensibility extends beyond the first thirty minutes to an hour,” Carpathia explains. “We will address the broken ankle with Skele-Gro and treat her bruises and abrasions once Hermione is conscious and we’ve confirmed that our initial diagnosis is accurate.”

“But she is going to make a full recovery?” Draco presses, as he and Macdolas simultaneously hold their breath; they exhale heavily as the Healer nods.

“But we will need to monitor her – at least overnight – as there is a small chance she may develop post-concussion syndrome. As it is, Ms Granger is likely to experience some confusion, dizziness, nausea, or an inability to process or retain information, as well as sensitivity to light, and vision distortion. We won’t be able to discharge her until we’re satisfied her recovery will be fully effected within a few days. She will also need to be competently cared for during her recuperation period,” Healer Carpathia explains.

“Hermione’s coming home with us – if we can’t properly take care of her ourselves, I’ll hire as many nurses and caregivers as she needs,” Draco vows.

Harry sighs. “Her parents may have other ideas, Malfoy; and they are her next-of-kin.”

Draco bristles at Potter’s logical but unwelcome reminder. “Hermione is _my_ beloved, and we will be the ones to care for her! Right, Macdolas?” he shamelessly ropes in his vigorously-nodding house elf.

“Macdolas will fight for the honour and privilege of tending to Her Grace the Most Honourable and Esteemed Lady Protector and Patroness of Humble House Elves Mistress Hermione Granger!” he squawks feverishly, his knobbly right hand clasped somewhere in the vicinity of his stalwart little heart as he stands at his full height [three feet two inches tall, not including his headwear] atop the rickety visitor’s chair.

“Who the what, now?” Potter asks bemusedly. He holds out a negating hand as Macdolas eagerly rushes to explain. “Never mind – I get the idea. I appreciate that you are both zealous about Hermione’s welfare, but you have to understand that the Healers and her parents will have the final say about where and with whom she convalesces,” Harry cautions.

Draco’s angry rebuttal is forgotten as he feels the tiniest of tugs on his hand.

“Malfoy?” Hermione’s husky whisper is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He spins around, joy bursting through him as he sees her gorgeous cinnamon eyes squinching against the bright overhead lights. “Is Macdolas alright? I called him… I couldn’t think what else to do…” Her pained eyes close again. Her slight squeeze on his handhold tightens by the merest fraction.

“Macdolas is fine, _ma petite_ … he’s sitting – well, standing – right beside you. You did exactly the right thing, Granger. My brave, clever, wonderful witch… _ma magnifique fille en or._ ” Draco is unable to resist leaning down to plant the lightest of kisses on her dry lips. Feeling her reciprocate the tiny peck is simply sensational. Draco is giddy with an internal kaleidoscope of emotions: euphoria, relief, pride… guilt and fear.

Before he can give in to the need to kiss and touch her again, Healer Carpathia nudges him out of the way. “Stand aside, please. You can canoodle later, and only with my permission.”

Draco reluctantly releases her hand and cedes his place at the head of Hermione’s bed, moving down and around to hover beside Macdolas; she smiles gently at his disgruntled visage and turns her attention to the medico. Despite her obvious lingering physical pain, Draco is heartened by the familiar expression of frowning concentration on Hermione’s face as she listens intently to the Healer’s quiet explanations and instructions.

 _She is going to be alright. She has to be OK. I won’t – I **can’t** accept anything else. Why the fuck didn’t I insist on Macdolas accompanying her to the Ministry?!? How did this even happen?_ Draco’s thoughts return to Potter’s earlier snippets of information as his face darkens with protective rage and burning vengeance.

 _Marcus Flint had better pray to every known god and demon that I don’t find a way to get to him before his trial. I will fucking annihilate that vicious piece of shit. Atom by bloody atom._ The thought of Flint pushing Hermione – _hurting_ Hermione – with a view to kidnapping and violating her has Draco vibrating with pure, violent wrath. His short nails dig into his calloused palms as his magic inadvertently flickers the lamp nearest him.

Potter glances his way instantly and moves to face him. “Settle down, Malfoy. Keep your focus on Hermione, and trust us to keep her safe and prosecute her attackers. We’ll administer Veritaserum to Flint as soon as he comes around; it won’t be long until we have the other perpetrator in custody,” Harry confidently avers.

“Keep her safe? Hermione was pushed down a stairwell at the _Ministry of Magic_ , Potter. Forgive me if I baulk at trusting your Aurors with anything more important than carting a hard-boiled egg, for fuck’s sake.” Draco keeps his voice to a low hiss, cognizant of Hermione’s worried peripheral glance at their interaction. Macdolas looks between the two arguing wizards in round-eyed fascination, his big ears flittering.

Their heating debate is paused as the door opens, admitting a middle-aged couple: a tall, lanky man and a slender woman of average height. Draco knows immediately that they must be Hermione’s parents; the man shares her unusually striated, intelligent brown eyes, while the woman’s shoulder-length mop of thick brunette curls gives away their genetic link. He has seen them before – but many years ago, and only their backs, from a distance. With a pang, he remembers squashing his nose to the windows of the Hogwarts train as he’d secretly tried to glimpse Hermione’s arrival at the platform every year.

Mr and Mrs Granger rush over to their daughter’s bedside, concern wreathing their pallid faces. The Healer smiles at them, clicking off his ocular torch as he steps out of their way and returns to notating the medical chart.

“Hermione? Oh darling, what’s happened to you?”. Her mother lays a shaking hand on Hermione’s crown as her father comes closer, his prominent Adam’s apple rapidly convulsing. Their troubled eyes are only for their injured offspring.

“Mum? Dad? I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to worry you,” Hermione’s voice breaks as Draco’s heart clenches. Mrs Granger starts crying in earnest as Mr Granger clutches tenderly at Hermione’s hand while the young witch sobs.

No one speaks for a little while, until Harry softly clears his throat and steps closer.

“Bernard? Jane? I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more information over the phone – thank you for coming so quickly,” Harry tensely grips the railed edges of the narrow hospital bed as the Grangers look across at him.

“Hermione was attacked at the Ministry – pushed down the stairwell between Levels Ten and Nine. We have the suspect in custody,” Harry hurries on as her parents gasp. “She has a mild concussion and a broken ankle; but Healer Carpathia has assured us that she will make a full recovery.”

The tall medic turns back to the group to confirm, “Ms Granger is a little disoriented and dizzy, but that is a normal reaction. We’ll mend her ankle, abrasions and haematomas overnight and aim for a discharge at some point tomorrow.” He shoots Draco a quelling look. “She will be released to the most appropriate set of guardians – not the most vocal.”

“I’ll be staying with Draco,” Hermione chimes in. Her voice is thready and sore, but her determination is unmistakable. “Assuming… is that OK with you, Malfoy? I don’t – I don’t mean to impose.”

She hasn’t finished her final phrase before Draco overrides her diffident question. “You will be staying with us, Granger – you were still insensate when we were contesting the point earlier. I won’t brook any further opposition,” he speaks calmly as he glares at the Healer and Potter in turn.

“Hold on a minute – your name is Draco? Draco Malfoy?” Mr Granger lets go of Hermione’s delicate hand as he straightens and glowers at the young man opposite.

“The Draco Malfoy who called my daughter a succession of filthy slurs throughout her schooling? The Draco Malfoy who didn’t miss a single opportunity to publicly ridicule and bully Hermione? The Draco Malfoy who joined the ranks of the filthy Death Eaters and the foulest of the foul, Voldemort? _That_ Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione’s father’s big hands clamp into menacing fists; his wife clings to one while Hermione rasps, “Dad – no, please –“

“Yes. I’m _that_ Draco Malfoy. I thoroughly deserve your censure; I won’t raise my hands or my wand to defend myself. But perhaps we could do this outside?” Draco looks at the Granger women; they are wearing matching expressions of dismay and apprehension.

Before anyone can intervene, Hermione grips the bedrails and manages to shift herself into a semi-upright position. The room erupts in a cacophony of scolding concern.

“ _NO._ _STOP_. All of you.” She points an imperious (if wobbly) forefinger at Bernard Granger. “Dad, I may not have my wand right now – where’s my wand? Does anyone have my wand?” she breaks off in a mild panic to fumble ineffectually beside her left arm.

“Macdolas finds Her Grace Lady Granger’s wand and guards it for her! He only takes it to keep it secure, he hasn’t used it, he promises!”. The worried manservant produces the vine wood caduceus from the pocket of his outrageously puffed pantaloons and almost topples off the chair as he attempts to place it into Hermione’s grasping hand. Draco clutches at the silly frilled horizontal ruff at the excitable elf’s neck, steadying Macdolas as he completes the wand’s handover himself.

“Oh, thank you, Mac – you truly are the best,” Hermione blows him a tired little kiss as Macdolas blushes and hangs his head.

“As I was saying… Dad – I now have my wand, and I will not hesitate to hex you, if you so much as trim a hair on Draco’s head. Don’t think I won’t do it,” Hermione’s low, scratchy voice is nevertheless instantly commanding and compelling.

“’And though she be but little, she is fierce’,” Draco quotes, overcome with tender admiration for his vehement, spitfire witch.

“’Oh, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school’,” Hermione completes the first half of the Shakespearian classic line.

They stare at each other in reciprocal proud satisfaction until Harry mutters, “Ain’t that the truth…”

Healer Carpathia butts in. “I’ll take that – and there won’t be any further violence or threats of same in this room, ward, or hospital. There are far too many visitors in here, anyway; Ms Granger needs her rest,” he deftly palms her wand and hands it to Harry.

“I’m not going anywhere, and neither is my wife,” Bernard Granger growls. “We’ll pick up this… discussion later, boy,” he jerks his dark strawberry-blond head at Draco, who silently accepts the slight, and the postponed reckoning.

“We’ll leave you to it, and come back a little later,” Harry drags Macdolas off his chair and lengthens the jagged tear in Draco’s compromised shirt sleeve as he hustles them out of the room.

Draco resists Potter’s machinations, turning back at the portal to seek Hermione’s exhausted topaz orbs. “I won’t leave you, Granger. Rest up, and listen to your Healer, _ma petite_. I’ll be back as soon as I can, alright?”. She nods wearily, head thumping back down onto the pillows as her mother fusses and plumps them.

“Come back soon, Malfoy… please, Draco,” she entreats softly. He summons the brightest smile he can manufacture, nodding his accession through blurry eyes. Neither looks away until Harry yanks him outside and Bernard Granger slams the door shut behind them, missing Draco’s nose by a whisker.

“I think we can all agree that Hermione probably hadn’t told her parents about you yet,” Potter quips, as the trio move down the corridor, back toward the staircases and elevator banks. Theo Nott detaches his lean form from the hallway wall and falls in wordlessly behind them.

Ignoring Potter’s feeble attempt at levity (and Theo’s nod), Draco numbly asks, “Potter – is there somewhere we can talk? I need to know… everything.” Now that he is out of the Hermione’s hospital room, his hard-fought composure is shredding like an old cobweb in a howling gale.

“There are tearooms on the Fifth Floor – we could all use a hot drink, and perhaps a shabby sandwich or two,” Harry agrees.

“Or cake,” Macdolas chips in hopefully.

The others laugh quietly, while Draco tries to keep one foot moving in front of the other.

_I almost lost her… I’ll do anything to keep her safe…_

**_Anything_ ** _._

* * *

**French translations:**

_ma chérie, qu'est-ce qu'ils t'ont fait?_ – my darling heart, what have they done to you?

 _ma douce et courageuse petite lionne –_ my sweet, brave little lioness.

 _ma magnifique fille en or –_ my beautiful golden girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted excerpts are from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ by William Shakespeare: Act Three, Scene Two.


	34. Absolution

__

_Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM_

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Draco… it’s still quite new. And… well, I was worried that you wouldn’t understand,” Hermione forces herself to look each of her parents squarely in the eye as she confesses her fears. She restlessly pleats at the plain azure cotton hospital blanket beneath her.

Jane Granger sighs. “Hermione, we’re your parents; of course we were going to express some reservations about this young man. Up until today, all we knew of him was that he habitually tormented you at Hogwarts –“

“And that he followed in his craven father’s footsteps to become a Death Eater,” Bernard Granger interrupts, brow beetling as he paces agitatedly around the room. “Honestly, Little Wendy – surely there are some decent wizards out there for you to choose from? For that matter, couldn’t you try dating a nice Muggle fellow? My friend Richard’s son is just a few years older than you, and he’s a lovely bloke –“

“Daaaaaad!” Hermione feels as though she’s regressed to her ten year old self as she whines at her father in frustration. “Number one, please don’t call me ‘Wendy the Good Little Witch’ anymore; it’s highly embarrassing, and childish –“

“I don’t see how, I mean, Wendy _was_ a ‘good little witch’,” Bernard grumbles.

“–number two: I refuse to date anyone who willingly answers to ‘Dick Junior’,” Hermione pronounces. “And number three – I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!” she grouses, head throbbing with the effort of keeping her list straight… _and maybe because I’m getting a little shouty. Geez, Dad!_

“I have to agree with Hermione, Barney – that name is dreadfully inauspicious,” Jane concurs, smiling at her husband’s aggravation. “Do come and sit down, honey – you’re on my last nerve, striding about like that.” She points at the chair that Macdolas recently vacated.

“Also,” Hermione doggedly continues, “Draco has been wonderful to me, since we reconnected – simply tremendous, in fact. He’s been responsible for saving my life twice, now.”

Both her parents are momentarily silenced by her revelation. Bernard’s mouth works furiously before he forms proper words.

“Saving your life? Hermione – what kind of trouble are you in? And why haven’t you told us of all this before now?”. Her father’s expression has shifted from cross to concerned… and sad. He chews at his wide bottom lip in a gesture that Hermione recognizes as part of her own repertoire of self-soothing tics.

The tears that have been hovering near the surface ever since she woke in the unfamiliar hospital surrounds are about to spill out her sore eyes once more.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t know if you’d want to be bothered about it. We’ve not been on the best of terms, Dad; I know you haven’t forgiven me for the Memory Modification and forced emigration,” Hermione baldly states. She is too tired and drained to choose her words as carefully as she usually would.

Bernard sinks into the spare chair, slumping as he looks unhappily at his adult daughter. “Hermione… I have forgiven you. A long time ago. But it’s been difficult, sometimes… to accept it. Knowing that this distance between us has prevented you from coming to us – to me, for help… well, I‘ve been a stupid, stubborn fool. I’m sorry.” He covers his head with his big hands as his elbows rest on his splayed knees.

“Dad – no – I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have approached you, explained– “

Jane wraps her graceful hand about Hermione’s chilled one. “Sweetie, we forgave you a long time ago. I’m sorry, too… we should have made more of an effort to bridge the distance. You’re a young woman now, and we all need to reconfigure our relationship, as adults. We should have talked about this sooner. We love you so much, Hermione… to see you lying here, hurt and scared– “ her mother sobs brokenly.

“Mum… please don’t cry,” Hermione snuffles as her own tears flow freely down her abraded cheeks. “I love you too – I wish I could go back, and undo the poor choices I made– “

“No, Hermione. You were right to do what you did in sending us away. I wouldn’t have listened to you at the time,” Bernard Granger stands again, laying his warm palm against her hot cheek as he sombrely regards his only child.

“I let my pride stick in my craw because it should be the parents caring for the child, not the other way around. I love you, Little Wendy… please, forgive me.” Two perfectly matched tears roll from the inner corners of his chocolate eyes, dripping off the end of his large nose and onto the blue blanket. Hermione half-laughs, half-sobs as she tries to pull both parents into an unwieldy hug.

“Come, now – I’m all for a cathartic cry, but any more of this and you’ll have me weeping into my own hankie,” Healer Carpathia gently admonishes.

He peers down at Hermione from the foot of the bed, keenly assessing her low level of enervation. “I think you’ve had your fill of visitors for the time being, Ms Granger. We need to begin the Skele-Gro treatment, and start healing those cuts and bruises.”

Jane Granger rises, giving Hermione a tender kiss on her forehead as she motions for her husband to join her in departure. “We’ll be back a little later on, Hermione. You look just about done-in; I am extremely worried about you, sweetie… But I know that you need to concentrate on healing and resting right now. Perhaps we could find Harry and ask him to fill in the gaps.”

“He’s probably taken the boys up to the tearooms; they’re on – “

“Level Five. Your old man still knows how to read a map legend. Get some rest and don’t worry, Little Wendy – I promise not to punch your beau in the mouth… not today, anyway,” Bernard mutters the last. “He _is_ just your boyfriend, right? He seemed pretty bloody smitten, from where I was standing. Slick ferret.”

“Dad! Don’t you ever call Draco a ferret again! You know what Barty Crouch Jnr did to him was utterly wrong!” Hermione sputters, settling down when she notices her father’s cheeky grin. Jane slaps Bernard’s forearm, but she is stifling her own smile at his gentle baiting.

“I know, I know… let me have a bit of fun with him, Hermione. He needs to realize I won’t countenance him treating you badly ever again,” Bernard declares with a stern nod.

“Alright, Dad. But my earlier threat still stands – I’ll hex you if you hurt him. Draco is… he’s very special to me. _Very_ special,” she stresses, unable to stop her puffy eyes from closing as her dad kisses her forehead in the exact spot as her mother’s recent caress. “I’ll see you both later?”.

“You will,” her mother confirms. With a final squeeze of her hand, Hermione’s parents exit the humble room.

All the aches and pains crash down upon Hermione as soon as her sires leave; she closes her eyes and lets the tears leak noiselessly down her cheeks. She focuses on the calming voice of her medico, as Healer Carpathia gently manoeuvres her limbs and props her upright to imbibe the foul-tasting Skele-Gro dosage. He gives her a water chaser as she strives to keep down the repellent liquid.

It is amazing how immediately the revolting medicine works its way through her system; the persistently hard throb of her broken ankle softens to a low ache within minutes. “Thank you, Healer Carpathia,” Hermione opens her eyes as the tall medic helps her to move beneath the covers, once her ankle splint has been removed.

“You’re very welcome, Ms Granger – and you can call me Hubert, if you like,” he smiles. “Just not ‘Bertie’, please – I had enough of being compared to Botts’s Every Flavour Beans throughout my childhood.”

“I understand completely,” Hermione mumbles. “I refuse to answer to ‘Mione’ ever again… Hermione is fine, though. Thank you, Hubert.”

“I added a little pain-killing potion to the Skele-Gro, so you should be able to rest whilst I perform the healing spells. Let me know if you feel anything stronger than a gentle pressure, Hermione. Ready?”.

The exhausted young witch nods. Unready to process the horror of her recent trauma, her dizzied mind instead latches onto the image of Draco, as he’d reluctantly backed out the door a short while ago… she’s never seen him so dishevelled and distraught before, not even in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts.

 _I wish Draco were still here, holding my hand; I want to tell him not to worry, that I’m going to be OK. I want to tell him_ … she drifts into a medicated slumber before the last thought is fully formed. 

* * *

“Here – there’s an empty table in the corner, that’s far enough away from prying eyes and flapping ears,” Harry decrees, gesturing to the small square table and four utilitarian chairs in a shadowed nook at the back of the main tearoom.

“I’ll grab us some hot drinks and a bite to eat. Any preference for coffee or tea, or shall I just surprise you?” Harry’s mouth twists at Draco’s apathetic shrug and Theo’s apprehensive face. Macdolas shyly raises his bony hand.

“Macdolas thanks The Most Revered Master Harry James Potter, Auror Extraordinaire and The-Boy-Who-Lived-and-Died-and-Lived-Again, Venerable Liberator and Saviour of House Elves and Triumphant Victor over He Who Shall Not Be Named! Macdolas humbly begs the honour of assisting in the appropriation of hot liquids and vittles… and respectfully and most meekly asks for a chocolate cupcake, if it pleases Your Excellency?” Macdolas begins one of his infamous low bows at the end of his high-pitched jabbering speech, until Harry stops him with a friendly smile and light arm squeeze.

“You can choose whatever you like, Macdolas – is that the right pronunciation? I am forever in your debt. You saved my best friend’s life today. I can never thank you enough. And just call me Harry, mate.” The house elf’s eyes enlarge until Draco thinks they may actually spontaneously pop from their sockets, as Macdolas whispers in disbelief, “…’call me Harry… mate’…”

“Don’t bother – you’ll be lucky if he shortens all that to ‘Your Excellency Most Revered Harry Potter’,” Draco mutters. “It will be quicker if you just accept it now, and let him give you a hand.” Eyes downcast again, Draco trudges off to fling himself into the farthest chair and begins to meticulously rearrange the salt and pepper shakers and sugar dispenser. The mundanity of the quintessential British response to drama and upset makes him want to scream. _Like a cup of weak caff tea and a stale sweet is going to cure all ills. Hermione is lying in a hospital bed right now… because I didn’t protect her_. Draco knocks over the pepper shaker as his hands tremble.

“I’m fine with whatever’s going, Harry. Thanks,” Theo nods, as he slowly walks off to join his old friend.

Sighing, Harry turns to the Scottish sprite. “C’mon, Mac – may I call you Mac? Let’s get this show on the road.” An overcome Macdolas nearly trips over his buckled flat black leather boots as he readily accedes.

Still fidgeting at the table, Draco refuses to look up, though he can sense Theo’s abstruse jasper green eyes upon him. The lump in his throat is growing in direct proportion to his worry for his paramour. Nott breaks the taut silence.

“Draco… I’m so sorry… We were on our way back, to pick her up – and we thought that Flint had already left– “ Theo chokes as Draco’s hand reaches out of its own volition to grab him by his precisely knotted navy silk tie.

“What the fuck do you mean, you were ‘on your way back’? You already suspected Flint? And you left Hermione to fend for herself in one of the most dangerous passageways in the entire bloody Ministry?!? And where the hell is Blaise, anyway?” he growls, watching in grim satisfaction as Theo’s translucent complexion suffers for lack of oxygen.

Nott doesn’t raise a hand to fight back as he answers in a strangled stutter, “M-Malfoy – l-let me explain– I c-can’t tell you if I can’t t-talk– “

Draco loosens his grip and wraps his angry hands around the glass sugar receptacle instead. “Speak.”

Coughing, Theo tugs at the too-tight Windsor knot and manages to slacken the tie enough to enable unconstricted breathing again. Potter and Macdolas hurry over with trays of mugs and a selection of sandwiches and cakes.

“Malfoy – can you hold off throttling Nott until after I’ve had a chance to question him, please?” Harry groans, as Macdolas’s expressive eyes flick back and forth worriedly. “Have a drink and let the man tell his tale. And add plenty of sugar to your coffee – you look awfully shocky.”

Biting back a sharp retort, Draco sullenly complies. His keeps his carbonite glare on Theo as he angrily stirs in an extra spoonful of sucrose.

Theo quietly thanks Harry for the mug of tea and sandwich the Auror pushes in front of him; he leaves both untouched as he begins a rasping explanation.

“Blaise stayed behind at the scene, to deal with the authorities and to ensure Flint was controlled until the other Aurors arrived – obviously, getting Hermione to St Mungo’s was our first priority. He’s best at dealing with people, and he’s tough as nails under pressure, regardless of his zany personality.’

“Hermione sat in on our second wine importation/exportation with Marcus Flint this afternoon; we’d previously advised Flint to send his Portuguese wine to France for final testing… Long story short, Flint flatly refused to stump up for the extra testing costs and turned nasty when we withdrew our support. Called us short-sighted cowards and ‘lickspittles’ before he stormed out.”

He gulps a few swigs of his tea before he resumes the narrative. “We were all on the point of drawing our wands on him – his vicious mood swing was bloody alarming. It dawned on me then that Flint has unlimited access to a potions/wine lab, and the money to invest in this sick roofie scheme… and Blaise admitted that Flint had been the one to casually suggest that Hermione join our meetings. I ran off to tell Harry about our suspicions, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found, and the Auror Division closed up tighter than a fish’s arsehole as to his whereabouts– “

Harry interrupts, “Sorry, Theo – it’s just force of habit. I was at Scotland Yard – they made a breakthrough with the IP address. Traced it to an internet café not a mile from Flint’s home, as it turns out,” he grimly divulges. “Your owl didn’t reach me until after I returned to the Ministry, and by then all hell had broken loose.”

“Get back to the part where you left my witch wandering the halls on her own, Nott,” Draco snarls.

“Draco, Hermione insisted on sticking around for that stupid patent law trial, and it was a closed courtroom session! We’d agreed to pick her up on the dot of five o’clock; and I’d heard from one of the Aurors that Flint had definitely left the Ministry after our aborted meeting… I’m sorry, we should have been there.” Theo’s thin shoulders hunch miserably as he apologizes.

“Will… will Hermione be alright? Is there anything I can do?” he petitions hesitantly, shredding a Cheddar cheese sandwich into tiny white and yellow lumps.

Harry answers, “Her Healer has assured us Hermione will make a full recovery, Theo. I appreciate that you were there to help – and believe me, I know how obstinate she can be; plus, she’s fiercely independent.”

Draco is only partially mollified by Theo’s elucidation. “Why didn’t anyone apprise _me_ of the danger? Hermione’s mulishness be damned – I would have moved heaven and earth to be there, to protect her! Don’t you know– “ he breaks off, throat swelling and closing off his speech as the potential horror of the evening’s events slams into him like a juggernaut.

“Hermione made us promise not to contact you – she swore that she would tell you everything, when she got home,” Theo reluctantly confesses. “She said that the danger was minimal, and that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself; she didn’t want anyone thinking of her as the helpless damsel in distress. Reckoned she’d had enough of that when she was drugged. Sorry, Draco.” Theo looks as though he wishes a hole would open up and swallow him whole.

His words pierce Draco like barbed arrows. _Hermione didn’t trust me to take care of her? She risked her own safety – for what purpose? Was she worried I would create a scandal, and embarrass her at her place of employment? Does she believe me incapable of considered restraint?_ The undermining thoughts slash at his wounded psyche. His fury at Theo diminishes as his regard turns inward.

“I can’t– I have to– I need a moment– “ Draco’s hip collects the edge of the square table as he rushes from his seat and runs out of the room, uncaring of the curious looks other diners are directing at him.

 _I just need to hole up somewhere to ride out the panic attack. There_ – he fumbles open the door of the men’s lavatory. Blessedly empty. Draco crumples to his knees in the end cubicle, uncaring for once about the dubious cleanliness of the tiled floor as he gasps for breath. He closes his eyes as the dull green walls shrink and expand, only to open them again as his mind floods with imagined pictures of Hermione in a battered heap at the bottom of a stone stairwell, Marcus Flint crouched over her…

Tears and sweat mingle as he wheezes and pants; his vision is spotty and dimming. Nausea decides to join the panic party, causing Draco to vomit into the conveniently placed ceramic toilet bowl in front of him. It’s mostly acidic bile and saliva, but he doesn’t stop until his stomach is hollow and cramping. The experience is an unpleasant reminder of Sixth Year – _best not to remember that, not now._

 _I cannot let Hermione be harmed. Not ever again. **Never** **again**. Her safety – her happiness – is everything._ The ramifications of his epiphany dig cruel tendrils into his mind, as he follows his avowal to its inescapable conclusion. _If our relationship is endangering her, or curtailing Hermione’s right to live her best life…_

Draco stumbles upright and lurches for the sinks, unwillingly glimpsing his reflection in the backsplash mirror. His gaunt, sickly visage makes him recoil; he looks like utter shite. Eyes like two dead coals, smudges of Merlin-knows-what on his jaw and cheek, bedraggled hair and clothes disgustingly decorated with splotchy patches of damp and more grime. Running the cold tap, Draco mechanically lathers the scrap of old dried soap beside the faucets and makes what amends he can to his appalling appearance.

The bathroom door slowly pushes open; the mirror affords him a view of Potter entering, palms raised up and out as he gingerly pokes his nose around the portal.

“Permission to enter, Malfoy? I come in peace,” Harry tentatively takes a few steps inside the door; it snicks closed behind him. Draco says nothing as he continues to swipe roughly at his head, face and neck with some dampened paper towels.

“What do you want, Potter?” he asks tonelessly. He’s barely able to dredge up the strength to voice the words. Apathetic detachment has settled on him like a heavy cape.

“We’ve got to stop meeting in scruffy bathrooms – people will start to talk.” Potter’s substandard joke does nothing to improve Draco’s numb aspect. He drops his eyes back down to the chilly running water, hating the trace of pity in Potter’s jade green eyes.

“Malfoy – you look terrible. Look, I know we aren’t friends– “

“Perceptive as ever,” Draco mutters, fashioning the shadow of a sneer onto his face with an effort.

“ –but I think we can agree to tolerate each other, for Hermione’s sake. You care for her deeply, don’t you?” Potter persists, ignoring Draco’s faint flare of snark. “Malfoy?”

“What do you want me to say, Potter? You want me to cry on your shoulder and confess my innermost feelings and deep dark secrets while we braid each other’s hair and swap Chocolate Frogs?” Draco means to shout, but it emerges as a whisper. He risks another glance at Harry: the trace of pity has blown out to a fully sympathetic posture as the shorter man twiddles his thumbs into the pockets of his scarlet robes.

 _Stuff it_. Draco decides that the sooner Potter hears what he wants to hear, the sooner he’ll leave him alone.

“Yes, fine – I do care for Hermione. More than you’ll ever know. Seeing her injured, scared, traumatized – knowing that I failed to protect her, despite all my grand assurances and precautions… realizing that I’ve let her down, _yet again_ – how am I supposed to feel? Tell me that, Oh Wise One,” Draco bites his inner cheeks until he tastes blood.

“I hate to say it, given our history – but you’re being too hard on yourself. You’re not omnipotent – and Macdolas told me that you tried to convince Hermione to bring him to work with her just this morning, but she flatly refused.”

Potter regards him shrewdly. “Hermione’s not perfect, Malfoy – she is downright pigheaded at times. You did everything you could to safeguard her. Do you think I don’t understand how you’re feeling? The entire time we were on the run together, hunting Horcruxes… I bloody agonized over the danger I was exposing her to, every day. But she’d made her choice, and you know – _you must know_ – how fiercely loyal she is.”

Harry pauses to grin ruefully. “Like I said, pigheaded. Brilliant, but stubborn to a fault.” Draco’s lips curve up the tiniest bit at Potter’s accurate description of his beloved.

“Speaking of which – I think I’ve figured out why Hermione was alone, when Flint attacked her.” Potter rummages in his Auror’s robes until he pulls out a battered cream envelope. A sick dread washes over Draco as he recognizes the stationery.

“I found this in her jacket pocket, after the Healers changed her into the hospital gown,” Harry uneasily reveals. “One of the other Council of Magical Law members who was walking back from the courtroom told Auror Moonfall that he heard Hermione gasp, and saw her suddenly dart back down the corridor… I think Hermione must have accidentally dropped it in the courtroom, and rushed back to recover it before she could think better of it. I’ve read it, and I know that Hermione would consider your card precious enough to temporarily forget her personal safety in order to retrieve it.’

“I apologize for inadvertently invading your privacy, Malfoy… and try not to blame yourself for this, too. I thought I’d best tell you now, so you can get your head around it before you go back in to see her.”

He hands the florist’s card to Draco, keen eyes looking worried once more. “You really don’t look well, Malfoy. Do you – do you want me to get in touch with your mother, ask her to meet you here? Or take you back to the Manor with her? Frankly, you look like you might collapse at any moment,” Potter offers quietly.

Draco chuffs a joyless laugh. “I know you think me a total mummy’s boy, but I’ll be alright. And I am not leaving Hermione, not for a second longer than I have to. Is it not already a circus in here, anyway?”

Potter’s mien shifts from concerned to peeved. “Yeah, that’s another thing: you need to be alert for reporters trying to sneak in. The wretched press has already gotten wind of the situation, unfortunately. The Auror Division won’t be making any comment until we’ve completed our enquiries; but you should brace yourself for a half-arsed exposé on Hermione’s attack at the Ministry… and your romance. Sorry, Malfoy.”

Shrugging, Draco takes this last blow with surprising equanimity. Feeling largely numb does have some benefits.

“They’ll be selling plenty of papers with all this scandal and intrigue, won’t they? You’ll keep your best Aurors guarding her, Potter?” Draco presses urgently.

Harry’s prompt response both cheers and dismays him. “Of course. And I’ll be sticking around, too. Listen – Hermione’s parents are in the tearoom. I’ve given them a brief rundown about what happened, but they’re not going anywhere, either… and they’re insistent that they need to speak with you. As soon as possible.”

 _Oh, fucking fantastic_. Draco’s stomach plummets again as he contemplates the high probability of Mr Granger throwing more than a few well-deserved punches in his direction (both verbal and physical).

“I’ve told Bernard and Jane that I support your relationship; and Bernard has conceded to hearing you out. And to not resorting to fisticuffs on the hospital grounds, if that’s any consolation,” Harry grins. “Good luck.”

Though the words stick in his craw a little, Draco is able to answer sincerely (albeit stiltedly), “Thanks, Potter. I appreciate that.”

Harry risks a congenial slap to Draco’s shoulder; they both flinch slightly at the unusual contact. “Alright. Finish trying to look vaguely human again and come back in soon, Malfoy. By the way – your little Macdolas is a bloody treasure. Next time you start beating up on yourself for ‘not protecting Hermione’ – try to remember it was _your_ idea to employ Mac as her bodyguard.”

Potter lets himself out of the dingy bathroom without another word.

Draco stares at the softly swinging door, and sighs.

_Time to face the music._

* * *

_Should I try to shake hands? Would that be considered an affront?_ Unused to being on the back foot in social situations is a novel experience for Draco – and one that he finds he does not relish.

He settles for a close-mouthed smile as he stands rigidly beside the quartet of low armchairs grouped around a small round table on the opposite side of the tearoom to their original seating. A discreet Theo and an agog Macdolas watch on as Bernard and Jane Granger rise while Harry completes the awkward introductions. To Draco’s surprise, an unsmiling Jane does raise her capable hand to shake; Bernard follows suit, after a small pause.

Expecting to have his hand bones at least lightly pulverised, Draco is relieved when Hermione’s father settles for a brief, firm grip and quick release. Harry gestures for them to be seated.

 _Another first: I’m bloody glad Potter is here, steering this uncomfortable meeting_. Some of Draco’s numbness is being replaced with crawling apprehension at what the next few minutes will bring.

Deciding to dive right in, Draco blurts, “Mr and Mrs Granger – I apologize unreservedly for the hurt and trauma I inflicted upon your daughter. I don’t have any excuse; I was an arrogant, foolish, horrid little brat. I’m not that insufferable boy anymore, though I know you find it difficult to believe. I accept that you have reservations about our relationship… I’d just like to say, that I keep Hermione’s well-being in the forefront of our interactions. Always.”

He swallows as Bernard’s hard glare remains fixed upon his clammy face. The older man looms forward as Jane speaks.

“Harry tells us that you found Hermione unconscious on your doorstep in the middle of the night; that you took her inside, and cared for her. Is that true, Mr Malfoy?” Her melodic voice is alike to Hermione’s clear, intelligent tones as she scrutinizes his weary, anthracite eyes.

“Yes.” No point elaborating; he’d only sound like a self-aggrandizing tosser.

“Why didn’t you take her to a hospital? Or summon Harry, or another Ministry official?” Bernard gruffly demands. “Seems strange that you bundled her off into your house, if you ask me.”

“Hermione regained consciousness long enough to flatly refuse my suggestions of both those alternatives, Mr Granger. And by that stage… she’d– regurgitated most of the spiked drink onto me,” Draco admits. “I kept a close eye on her that night, to ensure her condition didn’t deteriorate.”

The Muggle dentist barks a sharp laugh. “Little Wendy spewed on you? That’s my girl!” He continues to chuckle maliciously as his wife lays a hand on his knee and shakes her head reprovingly.

 _‘Little Wendy’?_ Draco files away the curious nickname to ask Hermione about later. _It’s nice how everyone is over the moon at being told Granger vomited all over me_ , he thinks pettishly.

“What about your family – what do they think about this odd romance?” Bernard abruptly demands. “Is your father still banging on about that ‘blood purity’ racist bullshit?”

“Barney, do ease off a little, please – you read all the trial reports, you know full well the details of Lucius Malfoy’s sentencing. I doubt very much that Lord Malfoy’s bitter prejudice has prevailed intact throughout his exile and legal punishments,” Jane Granger reasons.

Both Grangers are eyeing Draco intently. He speaks slowly, striving to express himself honestly and succinctly.

“Until recently, I’ve been estranged from my father. Having reinstated regular contact with him over the past month, I can tell you that he does seem altered – mellowed is far too strong a descriptor, perhaps ‘diminished’ is more accurate – in terms of his former racist outlook and ingrained snobbery. However, I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him; and I have no intention of introducing Lucius into Hermione’s life, unless she wishes it.” Draco’s lips thin at the thought of his crafty father and his traditional propensity for conniving schemes and plots.

He continues, “My mother has met with Hermione, and apologized for her part in the pain that the Malfoys have inflicted upon her. Narcissa formally welcomed Hermione to our home and family, and I believe in the sincerity of her motives.”

Jane Granger nods. “Your mother’s keen to see you settle down, I take it? Perhaps pushing for grand-babies?”. Draco flushes as Jane smiles and Bernard glowers. “Don’t worry, Mr Malfoy – I know it’s far too soon for that.”

“It bloody better be – if I hear about my girl being up the duff to this silver-tongued devil– “ Hermione’s father snarls.

“Let’s all take a step back from this particular topic,” Harry hastily intervenes, as Draco and Bernard turn similar shades of crimson; Jane hides a smile behind her hand at the men’s consternation.

“Perhaps we can come to a consensus as to the safest place for Hermione to convalesce, once Healer Carpathia deems her ready to be discharged?” ‘Peacemaker’ Potter suggests.

Jane huffs resignedly. “Hermione’s already told us she intends to stay with Mr Malfoy, Harry. I won’t waste my time trying to change her mind, provided her doctor – sorry, Healer – agrees.”

“Please call me Draco, Mrs Granger. And rest assured, you are both always welcome at my townhouse,” Draco soberly invites.

“Thank you, Draco. Do call me Jane. And we’d love to visit; isn’t that right, honey?” Hermione’s mother returns the granted intimacy and unsubtly digs her husband in the ribs.

“You can call me Mr Granger – and you’d better believe I’ll be turning up to check on my daughter’s welfare.” Bernard’s glare softens infinitesimally as he pronounces, “I’ll accept this… relationship between the two of you at face value… for now. But I’ll be watching you, Draco. And I might not be a wizard, but I _am_ a dentist – I know a thing or two about inflicting pain. Keep that in mind, boy.”

His menacing statement is incongruous with his bourgeois attire and appearance, but Draco doesn’t doubt that Bernard Granger means every word. He stiffly nods as Bernard makes a weird forked gesture with his index and middle fingers, pointing them first at his own eyes, then at Draco’s startled heather orbs.

“I’m watching you,” Bernard whispers again. Potter smirks.

 _Must be a Muggle thing_. Draco checks his silver wristwatch; he is aching to return to Hermione’s bedside, but he doesn’t wish to incur her father’s further wrath. Jane notices his agitated movement and takes pity on him.

“Why don’t you go back down and check on Hermione first, Draco? We’ve some more questions for Harry, and we’d love to properly meet your brave little Macdolas and personally thank him,” Mrs Granger proposes. She ignores her husband’s cross grumble. “Go on – if she’s still awake, please tell her we’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you… Jane,” Draco breathes. “Mr Granger – sir – I appreciate you hearing me out. Potter,” he nods as he leaps from the chair, the dulling numbness dispelled by their fraught conversation and the knowledge that he is returning to Hermione’s side. Draco hurries from the tearoom, unaware that he is smiling broadly in anticipation. _Hermione… J'ai hâte de t’avoir dans mes bras, ma chérie_.

* * *

**French translation:**

_J'ai hâte de t’avoir dans mes bras, ma chérie_ – I can’t wait to hold you again, my darling.


	35. Occupation

__

_Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM_

Hermione wakes sluggishly, instinctually snuggling against the warm, muscular male body she is draped over. _Draco. My Draco_. She knows his identity without needing to open her eyes to confirm it; his smell, his touch, even his rhythmic breathing are instantly familiar to her as she experimentally flexes the fingers of her right hand against his upper chest. _I wish I could always wake up like this_ , she imagines wistfully.

“Granger? How are you feeling, _ma petite_?” Draco immediately whispers; his left hand ceases gently stroking her right arm and shoulder. The full, horrid memory of where she is – and why she is currently hospitalized – washes over Hermione as she involuntarily stiffens in Draco’s arms.

“Hey, you’re OK – you’re safe, Granger. You’re safe, _ma petite_. I’m sorry, I did not mean to wake you.” Draco tenderly brushes a few tawny curls off the side of her face.

Craning her neck upward, Hermione slowly opens her heavy eyes. “You didn’t – my bladder did, actually,” she admits with a wry chuckle. “Can you please help me to the toilet? My ankle feels normal again… but just in case…” she trails off as Draco hastens to comply. He carefully disengages from their embrace, picking up and setting Hermione’s hand onto her thigh as he slides off the hospital bed. Holding out his hands, he helps her to sit upright and swings her legs off the side as she gingerly tests the stability of her healing right ankle.

“Go easy, please… I will carry you if you are having any trouble or feeling a twinge of pain,” Draco instructs, hovering anxiously as Hermione steps cautiously forward.

“I’m alright – see? But I wouldn’t argue if you wanted to wrap your arm around my waist,” Hermione suggests with a shy smile. Draco wastes no time in slipping his arm around her midriff as they slowly progress toward the small adjacent bathroom facility in the corner of the private room.

 _Wait… how on earth did we both fit on the high narrow cot?_ Hermione shakes her head in an effort to clear its residual fuzziness. Draco answers her query before she can vocalize it.

“Healer Carpathia _Engorgio’ed_ your bed a little so I could lie down with you and not risk squashing you… I hope you don’t mind. He reckoned I looked almost as exhausted as you and then threatened to Stun me if I refused,” Draco admits with a rueful chuckle. “It’s not as though I needed my arm twisted… holding you is always a privilege, Hermione.”

His gaze shifts to the floor as Draco quietly adds, “I don’t want to leave you tonight, Granger; would you mind if I stayed? I promise not to bother you – I’ll sit in the chair. I can’t – I can’t bear the thought of not being with you.” His voice is raw with sadness and longing as he opens the bathroom door wide for Hermione to precede him inside.

“I’d be devastated if you didn’t stick around – and sod the bloody chair, you’re going to cuddle me in that enlarged bed all night, Malfoy!” Hermione adopts her bossiest tone in a feeble attempt to conceal how badly she needs her gorgeous, troubled boyfriend by her side, as she pauses just inside the portal.

Enthusiasm and desperate need (and some partial imbalance) propel her into Draco’s arms for a tight hug. He returns the embrace with interest and drops fierce little kisses over the top of her head as Hermione snuffles back her sobs and rejoices in her narrow escape.

 _What if I hadn’t been able to summon Mac? What if he hadn’t heard me in time? What if... I’d never seen Draco again?_ The last thought has her howling as her (apparently bottomless) well of tears overflows.

“I was so scared... I was stupid, Draco, I should have listened to you this morning, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–“ Hermione cries into his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate against her right ear.

“No, no, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, Hermione – I was terrified, I heard you call my name, but I didn’t know where you were or what had happened–” Draco chokes and stutters to a halt, rubbing his big hands up and down her back.

Moments pass as they cling and cry; Hermione eventually manages to stem the flow of tears and gratefully accepts Draco’s silently proffered handkerchief to wipe her cheeks and blow her nose.

“I keep stealing your hankies, don’t I?” she tries a weak smile as he tenderly strokes his left thumb below her lower lashes, capturing a missed tear. “I’d better use the loo before I have a proper breakdown... thank you, Draco.”

His sad smile makes her want to start bawling again as he responds, “Hermione, you don’t have to thank me. Not ever. I’ll be right outside – you call me if you need any help, OK?”.

She nods and closes the door.

* * *

“Are you comfortable? Are you certain you have enough room? Are you warm enough? These blankets are dreadfully flimsy,” Draco fusses as Hermione stifles an exasperated sigh at his nit-picking. “Honestly, do they reuse the bed linens until they literally fall apart?” he carps.

Lightly pinching Draco’s arm through his shirt sleeve, Hermione ignores his aggrieved yelp. “I am comfortable, I have plenty of room, I am warm and cosy, and the bedding is standard for any hospital, Malfoy. What do you expect, cashmere blankets and silk pillowcases?” she razzes, as he tickles behind her ear in mild retaliation.

“You should always have the best, Granger; if you were staying longer than one night, I would ensure that these dull rags were exchanged for quality sheets and duvets,” he sniffs. His little smirk betrays his pompous statement, though. His tickle shifts to his fingertips caressing her cheek; Hermione turns her head to kiss his palm. She wriggles backward a little on the bed, the better to see Draco’s face as she begins speaking.

“Malfoy, you said earlier that you ‘heard’ me call your name… are we… are we mind-linked somehow, now? After… after we made love, the night of the ballet? I had to concentrate hard to wordlessly and wandlessly call Mac, when I was on the verge of passing out, but I just _thought_ your name, I wasn’t striving to make you hear me…” Hermione frowns as she tries to make sense of the phenomenon. It doesn’t help that her concussion and medication are still muddying her usually sharp cognition. “I did some research in the Manor’s library the other day, but the mating or merging of magical cores seems to be a rare occurrence, and I couldn’t find much factual information as to its known qualities and abilities,” she sighs frustratedly.

Draco slowly replies, “I’d have to do some checking of my own… my mother and I can communicate telepathically, but usually only if we’re within physical sight of one another, and probably because she’s the one who originally taught me Legilimency/Occlumency – and we’re genetically linked, of course. Narcissa is a partial Seer; I’m not sure if you knew that?”. They are back in the magically enlarged bed, though sitting upright this time, Hermione tucked into Draco’s side as his hands continuously bestow butterfly-light caresses.

“I’d heard a few rumours about it,” Hermione admits. “Your mother seems rather adept at staying under the radar, though.”

“Mmm. She hasn’t had much going on since the War and Lucius’s house arrest, anyway. I’m certainly not bemoaning the disintegration of Pureblood cliques… but Mother’s ostracism from most of her old social set hit her hard,” Draco’s mouth sets in a hard line, before he makes a visible effort to relax his expression.

“But we’re talking about our unexpected telepathy – yes, I ‘heard’ you, in my mind – just my name, in your voice. As clearly as if you were standing beside me. And then I ran about the house like a mad thing, before I tried and failed to call Macdolas, and ended up running about the Ministry like a mad thing… your supervisor told me they’d brought you here.”

“If I’d known that we were connected, I would have called you first – but I could feel myself going under from the head knock, and I thought that Macdolas might be able to help me…“ Hermione explains, cinnamon eyes worried.

“Granger, you did exactly the right thing; Macdolas possesses special magic, he was able to Apparate straight to your location, and Potter said that he Stunned that sick bastard Flint into a coma; I might have actually Avada’ed the arsehole, had you called for me instead,” Draco growls.

Eyes wide, Hermione breathes, “Mac put Flint in a coma? And it _was_ Flint? Just Flint?”. She raises her hand to scratch at her covered scar, before Draco firmly clasps her hand in his.

“That’s what Potter told me – I haven’t had a chance to learn more. You are my number one priority, Granger. Listen, we can leave the rest of the explanations until tomorrow. I don’t wish to upset you… I can’t imagine how traumatizing all this must be for you.”

Draco collects her other hand and squeezes both as he sombrely asks, “Would you consider seeing a therapist? Magical or Muggle, whichever you prefer. I don’t wish to push the issue – I have learned my lesson about bossing you about… well, I’m _trying_ not to domineer you, anyway – and I do think that some expert therapy might help you to better deal with everything that’s happened.” He looks nervous as Hermione cocks her head to the side to mull over his suggestion.

“I think… that is a good idea.” Hermione softly laughs at Draco’s patent astonishment about her ready concession. “See? I can be flexible… sometimes,” she modifies. “I don’t like feeling this way; I’m all over the place, emotionally. It reminds me too much of my experience of PTSD, after the War. Sorry, that’s Post Traumatic– “

“–Stress Disorder. Yes, I’m familiar with the term,” Draco quietly interrupts. “I hate – no, I absolutely _detest_ that you have been hurt again, Granger. Physically, emotionally… attacked in your own workplace, for Salazar’s sake! I would do anything to take away your pain, _ma petite_ ,” he hoarsely professes. “When I think of what could have happened– “ he gulps, casting down his eyes to their joined hands as his breathing becomes rapid and ragged.

“But it didn’t happen – I'm OK... I’m going to be OK, I promise,” Hermione amends. Her guilt is exacerbating as she witnesses Draco’s torment. _If only I had accepted Mac’s company this morning... if only I’d not foolishly darted back to the courtroom on my own..._

“This isn’t about me – I apologize. We need to focus on your safety and well-being.” Draco’s ability to compartmentalize his emotions is impressive, as his fine tremors ease and his face loses much of its anguished aspect.

He slowly articulates, “Granger, I don’t wish to harangue you about taking your personal safety more seriously, or make you feel in any way that I am judging you, or blaming you for what happened – please, don’t misunderstand my intent. But I must ask you: please, never again endanger yourself for the sake of an easily-replaceable material item.” Draco pulls out the creased florist’s card from his pocket. “Something like this silly card, for example.” He shakes his head as she hunches slightly and bites her lip.

“Cards are easily rewritten – but you… Hermione, you are priceless, and I will not let you out of this hospital room until you swear to me you will **_never_** ignore your own security for the sake of something so trivial. _Ma chérie ... Je ne peux pas supporter l'idée que tu sois blessée à nouveau._ Promise me, please,” Draco beseeches, gazing deeply into her disquieted, guilty eyes.

“I promise,” Hermione whispers. “I’m sorry – I was so enamoured with your glorious roses, and your beautiful message – but I won’t be reckless like that again. I swear it.”

Exhaling a huge relieved sigh, her boyfriend tucks the beleaguered card back into his trouser pocket. “I’ll keep this safe for you, until we go home.”

“Draco... would you kiss me, please?” Hermione tremulously petitions. She is overwhelmed by the need to be as close to him as possible.

“Of course… I have been aching to do so since you awoke, but I didn’t want to pester you or inflame your injuries. Just one careful little smooch, alright?”. He smiles freely as she happily nods and nestles closer.

The length of time it takes for Draco to slant his lips over her own seems endless; Hermione watches impatiently as his platinum head slowly lowers, while his hands softly hold her face in place. She closes her eyes at the first brush of his mouth. Despite his admonition to maintain caution, the familiar euphoric zing of electric connection zaps between them, gaining momentum as Hermione slides her own hands to cup Draco’s strong jaw.

Trading pecks and tiny nibbles, they smile quietly into each other’s mouths as their passion conflagrates. Hermione wilfully ignores Draco’s (admittedly half-hearted) attempts to keep their embrace light as she squirms onto his lap and kisses him intensely. He is leaning back as far as he is able against the heaped pillows and the wall behind the hospital bed, ruefully protesting her disobedience even as he meets her smooch for smooch.

“You love being insubordinate, don’t you? Naughty little lioness, stop this– “ another smacking kiss silences his token objection.

Draco tries again. “Granger – you still have a concussion, you need to rest – Mmmphff–“

 _He feels so good… so right… Draco is the only medicine I need right now_ , Hermione happily decides as her lips cling to his full mouth. _I don’t know what I’d do if I lost this… if I lost Draco…_ her kisses grow a little desperate and wild as her wounded psyche rejects the horrendous concept.

Sensing her emotional equilibrium toppling, Draco disengages in earnest, holding her slightly apart from him as she immediately grumbles. “Hey, hey, I’m not going anywhere, do you hear me? Let me just hold you for a little while, Granger. Please,” he cradles her head to his chest and relaxes against the pillow stack, gently combing his long fingers through her messy hair. “Besides – your parents will be back soon, and your father already hates me enough for two lifetimes… catching us kissing will not help soften his attitude,” he warns.

“Why – what did Dad say to you? Did he threaten you? I specifically warned him to leave you be; where did Hubert put my wand?” Hermione demands, sulking as Draco firmly restrains her flailing arms.

“Hush, _ma petite_ – your father’s dislike is understandable; he didn’t say anything I wasn’t expecting to hear. Well, apart from– that is, he has solidified my resolve to avoid Muggle dentists like the plague,” Draco rejoins, his ears reddening a little. “The whole process is barbarous, if you ask me.” He frowns as he adds, “’Hubert’, is it?”.

Hermione disregards the jealous note in Malfoy’s tone, still puzzling over the tiny hitch in the middle of his speech. _That’s odd… his ears only usually blush like that when he’s embarrassed_ … Hermione is preparing to quiz Draco further on his conversation with her dad when a steady knocking on the door interrupts her train of thought.

“Come in,” Draco responds, after Hermione nods her assent.

A smiling Harry opens the door, followed by her parents. “Hey – you already look much better!” Harry exclaims. He manages to work around Draco’s continuing firm hold on Hermione to buss a quick kiss onto her cheek. Hermione flicks her eyes to see her father glaring at Malfoy as though the blond wizard had recently stolen the family sedan for a joyride and returned it with an empty petrol tank.

“Hi, Harry – thank you. Mum, Dad… did Harry explain what’s been going on?” Hermione almost giggles wickedly at the way her father’s eyes bug out as she deliberately lays her right hand on Malfoy’s flat stomach. They engage in an unspoken battle of wills as Hermione employs her sharp eyes to silently dare her father to say one word ( _just one word!_ ) about her cuddling into Draco. She is quietly jubilant when Bernard is the first to break their intense eye contact.

Her mother rolls her eyes, having witnessed the whole power play from the sidelines. Jane Granger moves forward to cup her daughter’s cheek. “I agree with Harry, sweetie: your colour is much improved. Your nice Healer obviously knows what he’s doing,” she smiles. “And Draco is taking good care of you, I see.”

“Draco always takes good care of me, Mum,” Hermione tips up her head to meet Draco’s abashed heather eyes. “I’m the luckiest witch in the world… What’s that, Dad?” she calls out Bernard Granger as he mutters beneath his breath.

“I said… I’m glad to hear that, Little Wendy,” he grits out the words around his forced smile. “And to answer your earlier question – Harry has told us more about what’s been going on. It’s just as well he’s already put some Aurors in place to guard that Flint character’s room… He’ll rue the day he decided to come after my daughter, the sick piece of shit – sorry, honey – the sick scumbag!” Bernard’s amiable face is hard with fury.

“You’ll need to get in line behind me, sir,” Draco quietly contributes. The two men share a look of gruff masculine solidarity.

“You can both queue up behind _me_ ,” Hermione crossly corrects. _Bloody macho malarkey!_ “I’m not some helpless princess in a tower, waiting to be rescued,” she scolds.

“More like the fire-breathing dragon,” Harry jests, which makes Draco and Bernard chuckle.

Harry hurries to change the subject as Hermione glowers at him. “There’s been a complication with Flint, actually… the Healers have run all their diagnostics, and they are reluctant to medically intervene to bring him out of his coma. Apparently, they run the risk of permanent memory loss and brain damage if they do any more than reduce the swelling on the cerebral cortex.” All their faces fall at the new information.

“What about using Veritaserum? Wouldn’t you still be able to access his memories that way?” Hermione queries, her anxiety rising despite Draco soothingly petting her arm.

Shaking his head, Harry glumly admits, “No – if the memories are already damaged, no amount of Veritaserum will force Flint to reveal the truth. I’m sorry, Hermione. We’re going to have to wait until Flint wakes up naturally. Don’t worry – we’re already in the process of turning his home upside down for evidence. I promise you, we will arrest and prosecute everyone involved in this revolting conspiracy,” he pledges, dark emerald eyes glinting purposefully behind his round spectacles.

“But you’re certain – it was Flint who pushed me?” Hermione attempts to quell her disappointment at Harry’s unwelcome news by refocusing on the identity of her Ministry attacker.

“Yes. Macdolas has confirmed that when he Apparated onto the scene, Flint was crouched over your unconscious body – Hermione, he had his hand in your hair, and was yanking up your head at a cruel angle. Your ferocious little bodyguard took one look at Flint and immediately Stunned him smack-bang into the stone wall.” Harry shakes his head admiringly. “I’m wondering whether we can make him an honorary Auror, or something along those lines…?”.

Draco interjects, “Keep your greedy mitts off Macdolas, Potter: he’s a Malfoy house elf, through-and-through… well, a Granger house elf, now,” he grins at Hermione.

A bemused Bernard asks, “But I thought you were gung-ho about freeing the house elves, Hermione? Wasn’t that what the ‘S.P.I.T.’ badges were all about, back in the day?”. Hermione scowls at the twin chortles of Draco and Harry at her dad’s malapropism.

“Mr Granger, it was actually ‘S.P.E.W.’: Society for the Prevention of Elvish Warfare,” Draco intones with a perfectly straight face, as Harry’s chuckles swell into full-blown guffaws. Bernard joins in, regardless of not entirely understanding the joke. He rubs at his short gingery beard as Hermione visibly disapproves of their communal idiocy.

Jane rebukes, “Don’t listen to them, Barney – it was the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare, and Hermione put in a lot of effort to publicize the appalling conditions some of the little elves were living under,” she pats her daughter’s shoulder reassuringly. “Ignore them, sweetie.”

 _Well, at least Dad isn’t still balefully eyeing up Draco as though he’s mentally measuring him for a coffin._ Hermione waits until their mirth has eased before she enquires, “Where is Mac? I’d like to give him a proper thank-you for saving my life. And Dad, Macdolas is a free elf, as are all the current Malfoy house elves. They receive a proper wage for their hard work, which is exactly as it should be,” she declares.

“Mac stayed behind with Nott, in the tearoom; we thought it best not to inundate you with too many visitors,” Harry says. “Theo would like to see you himself, when you’re ready; that is, provided this hothead –“ he points at Draco “– doesn’t try to strangle him again.”

“Draco, what on earth?” Hermione cries. “Theo and Blaise were extremely protective of me – none of what happened is their fault! And Theo is your best friend…” she twists her mouth disapprovingly.

Malfoy shrugs sheepishly. “It was a misunderstanding, _ma petite_. I was overwrought, and lashed out. Please don’t fret – I shall apologize to Theo as soon as I see him next. It was only a light choking, anyway,” he mumbles as Hermione quirks a stern eyebrow.

“Violent tendencies,” Bernard can’t resist noting, as Jane joins Hermione in a miffed sigh. “Well, we’d best be off, Little Wendy – Harry assures us you’re receiving the best of care and protection, but we’ll be back first thing in the morning. And one of you will contact us, if anything happens?” he petitions gravely.

Mr Granger’s keen brown eyes rove over Hermione’s drawn, pale face as Draco staunchly utters, “I certainly will, sir.”

“Thank you, Draco; Harry has our phone number, although perhaps you don’t know how to use a telephone… of course, we’re used to the owls now,” Jane hesitates.

“The telephone is fine, Jane – I’ll be sure to call you before Hermione is discharged, too,” Draco affirms.

Healer Carpathia enters, his lime green robes rustling as he pushes a small steel cart bearing a metal cloche. “Here’s that soup I promised you, Hermione; I’m afraid visiting time’s over for the night, folks.”

They begin taking their leave, kissing or hugging Hermione as Draco gently slides off the bed to reaffix the metal rail into position, and adjust the stacked pillows behind her back. He hovers beside the bed as Hubert moves the tray onto Hermione’s lap. She smiles tiredly and returns her family’s farewells. The door shuts gently behind them as she turns to Draco.

“You’ll stay? Is that alright, Hubert? I’m asking for form’s sake, you understand… if you say no, I’ll march myself out of here right now,” she pronounces, only half-jokingly.

The Healer rolls his eyes. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love,” he ripostes, deftly checking Hermione’s healing ankle and the swiftly-disappearing bruises and scrapes. “But don’t make me regret expanding the bed: do I make myself clear, Mr Malfoy?” he stares meaningfully at the tall tow-headed wizard.

“Perfectly,” Draco coolly clips out, despite the scarlet tide crawling up his alabaster neck. “Thank you, Healer Carpathia.”

“Excellent. I’ll be back for the cart in half an hour, and to run some more diagnostic spells. You’re on the mend, Hermione – if you continue to follow instructions and get plenty of rest, I see no reason why you won’t be going home tomorrow.”

“Thank you very much, Hubert,” Hermione lets her happiness at the prospect show on her features.

As the mediwizard leaves the room, Draco steps forward to pick up the spoon Hermione is reaching for. “Let me help you, Granger. Indulge me… please?”. She accedes, obediently parting her lips to swallow the carefully ladled chicken and vegetable soup. Her walnut-brown eyes remain trained on his face as he patiently scoops up each delicious, warming mouthful.

 _He’s being so fabulous… so caring… how did I get so lucky?_ Hermione reflects, as Draco concentrates on measuring exactly the right ratio of chicken-to-vegetables-to-broth in the next spoonful. Even his little perfectionisms and obsessive coping mechanisms are endearing, and as familiar to her as her own. She doesn’t know exactly how or when it happened; but Hermione can’t imagine her life without Draco firmly planted at the centre of it.

And rather than scaring her silly… it swamps her with exuberant, giddy, utter joy.

* * *

_Wednesday 12 March 2003: AM_

“Easy, be careful – this would go much more smoothly if you’d just let me carry you upstairs,” Draco gripes, as Hermione carefully ascends the townhouse’s first floor steps. Her fretting boyfriend is shadowing her every tread – _breathing down my neck, actually_ – as she tests the strength of her newly-healed ankle.

“Malfoy, you heard Hubert: he told us in no uncertain terms that I was to walk around as much as possible, and merely to be cautious not to overdo it,” Hermione chips back. “Trust in the Skele-Gro, and the medical professionals, OK? It was bad enough he wouldn’t let me leave unless I was in a wheelchair, anyway.”

At least Healer Carpathia had directed them to an empty departure lounge, when she was finally discharged. Hermione had been dreading having to face the scrutiny of the over-invested public (although Draco had flatly refused to allow her access to any of the newspaper reports).

She halts at the landing, being sure to maintain her firm grip on the banister as she cheekily lifts her right foot and waggles it ostentatiously. “Look – good as new! I’ll go for a jog tomorrow,” and Hermione grins as she waits for the fuss-bomb to go off.

“Oh ho ho, no you won’t! Not unless you want a thorough spanking, my pert little coquette,” Draco warns, wrapping his arms around her from behind. His gentle kiss to her left ear belies his austere tone. “Come on – let’s get you set up in the bedroom, Granger. Macdolas has been busy all morning, bringing over a selection of your clothes and books; half the wardrobe is yours.”

“Malfoy, you didn’t have to do that – it seems like a lot of bother, for a few days’ convalescence,” Hermione protests.

“Consider this your home… I mean, for as long as you wish it,” Draco quickly qualifies, as she baulks at his surprising statement. He effectively masks his expression as he hustles her forward again, crossing through the doorway of the master bedroom and ignoring her squeaking token objection as he picks her up and sets her down on her side of the big bed.

“Macdolas collected all the books in your bedroom, and your toiletries are already in the bathroom; you have only to ask him for anything else you require. The industrious munchkin is itching to be of service,” Draco minutely prods one of the book’s spines back into alignment with its fellows. He still hasn’t looked at her directly since he announced that this is apparently her domicile now.

Hermione lets the silence settle down her antsy lover, until he finally meets her steady gaze. “You’re not speaking – what’s wrong?” Draco frowns.

“Are you implying that I normally talk the hind leg off a donkey, Malfoy? Charming,” Hermione banters. She takes pity on him as Draco stares at her apprehensively.

Reaching out to grab his elegant hands, she says softly, “Thank you, Draco… I hope you know that my home is your home, too… for as long as you wish it,” she echoes his assertion, tilting up her head so her sincerity and gratitude is more readily apparent. “Although I doubt you have a sudden burning desire to relocate to Bexley,” Hermione grins as she mentally compares her humble flat with Draco’s luxury abode. “But anyway, ‘ _mi casa es tu casa_ ’.”

Kissing his knuckles, she rubs her cheek against his hands before she commands, “There _is_ something that you can do for me – I want you to finally reveal your mysterious vocation, please. And before you demur: I am one hundred percent capable of walking up another staircase. Let’s go,” she keeps hold of his hands as she hoists herself upright and begins to tow the mulish-looking blond back out of the bedroom.

“But you are supposed to be resting– “ Draco stumbles a little as Hermione yanks harder. “Very well – it’s not as if I have a choice in the matter, is it? You know I find it near impossible to deny you your every whim,” he presses his free hand to the small of her back as they trudge up to the third floor. The light pressure makes Hermione shiver.

Her lips curl up at the corners as she contemplates seducing him, later. Being spooned in his arms in the basic hospital cot last night had been wondrously comforting, and tranquil; but her need to connect with him physically… _sexually_ , is staggeringly desperate. _And it will probably have to be a rampant seduction_ , she decides. _He is already treating me like spun glass. And I am definitely not too fragile to handle_.

Her musings are interrupted as they reach the entry to the third floor. There are only two doors. Draco stops in front of the first one and nods to the second. “That’s the bathroom – it contains a lavatory and small shower. Makes it easier sometimes, when things get messy.”

He nervously fiddles with the shiny bronze doorknob as he tentatively remarks, “You don’t have to pretend an interest, you know… I don’t expect you to gush over anything I do, Granger.”

“Gush? When have you ever known me to _gush_ , Malfoy? Next, you’ll be calling me ‘bubbly’,” she hisses at the unwelcome thought. “Stop stalling, and let me see these dead wives of yours, please.”

Nudging open the door, Draco flicks on the light switch and gestures for Hermione to step inside. She stops dead a few steps in, gasping at the sight before her amazed eyes.

The room is massive; Draco must have knocked down all the non-load-bearing walls to fashion the studio. The ceilings are high and peaked, with six large skylights letting in as much of the pale spring sunlight as possible. The space is full of materials, shelving and tools, but doesn’t feel cluttered – Draco’s need for compulsive organization is evident, even in this creative hotspot.

Canvases dominate the room: they range in size from small posters to huge frames that are bigger than the artist himself. Most are covered and stacked neatly in special racks, but the ones Draco is currently working on are propped on wooden easels in the middle of the workspace.

Hands plunged into the pockets of his black jeans, Draco nods shyly as Hermione quietly asks, “May I take a closer look?. He hangs back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as she gazes at his handiwork in reverent awe.

The first painting appears complete, apart from a few small patches here and there. She recognizes the scene immediately: it is the Hogwarts library, depicting the study tables in front of the caged shelves of the restricted section. As with Draco’s pencil drawings, the painting is breathtakingly photo-realistic, down to the script on the spines of the hundreds of books, and the open pages of the tomes on table in the foreground.

But what truly captures Hermione’s regard is the brunette figure seated at the rear table; the schoolgirl is surrounded (and nearly obscured) by heavy volumes, busily scribbling down notes with a plumy quill and sporting an intense mien of pure scholastic concentration. Her distinctive red and yellow tie is slightly uneven, but the real giveaway to her identity is the rambunctious mop of tawny ringlets flowing down her back.

“This is… this is me,” Hermione croaks. “You painted… _me_?”. The question is rhetorical; there is little doubt in her boggled mind.

“Yes, I– I used to sketch you. While you were studying,” Draco’s emotion-sensitive ears are flaming as he toes at a tiny mark on the wooden flooring. “Most of the drawings were destroyed, but I remembered enough to paint it.’

“I hope you don’t mind – I was not intending to show it, but if you object, I can easily paint over it – “ he moves as if to start the process that instant.

Hermione shrieks at the abhorrent idea. “No! I forbid it!”. She relaxes as Draco smirks at her indignant edict.

“So you do exhibit your work? How long have you been painting? Is it your preferred medium? Do you prefer landscapes, or portraits? Or both? Do you also use oils? Do you take commissions?” Hermione eagerly peppers him with her burning need to know _everything_.

“Wait –“ she peers at the bottom right quadrant of the picture “– you’re ‘Vouivre’?!? Oh my goodness – you are!” She claps together her hands in excited glee.

“You’ve seen my work before?” Draco’s surprise is writ large across his refined features. “Really?”.

“Yes, yes – we went to your show last year, at Halcyon Gallery in Mayfair. I _knew_ I recognized one of those snow scenes; I pointed it out to Harry – I told him, ‘that reminds me so much of Hogsmeade, on a fine winter’s day’…” Hermione bounces over to Draco and starts swinging his hands up and down as he laughs at her childish enthusiasm.

“Potter’s seen my work? That is so bizarre,” Draco muses.

“Oh, Harry isn’t into art like I am, but as my best friend, he knows he has to make the effort sometimes,” Hermione smiles. “And even he agreed that your paintings ‘weren’t half bad’.”

“Wow – I’ll have to ask him to write my next review,” Draco wisecracks. His face sobers as he uncertainly enquires, “Do you… do you like them? The paintings?”.

“Like them? _LIKE_ them?!?”. Hermione huffs incredulously, choosing her next words with great care. “Malfoy… I love them. I could look at your work for the rest of my life, and never tire of it. I am… I’m astounded by your talent. Just… blown away,” she breathes, annoyed that the doubtful look on Draco’s face hasn’t cleared.

“What – you don’t believe me? Ask Harry – I was seriously considering dipping into my savings last year, to buy that Hogsmeade landscape… but the price was out of my range. Go on – ask him,” she drills her index finger into his hard chest for emphasis. Draco grabs it and kisses the tip; his pebble-grey eyes are relieved and delighted.

“You know… I’m certain I could put in a good word for you, with the artist,” he teases. “Perhaps even work out a deal where he is paid – with your kisses? How does that sound, do you think?”. Draco plants a smacker on her giggling mouth as he slides his agile hands to her hips and draws her into the heat of his body.

“Huh, I’m not sure… I thought he’d worked out a previous deal whereby he was paid in kisses for answers?” Hermione arches her back as she pretends to resist his ardent attentions; Draco retaliates by nipping and licking along her neck and ear.

“That’s a separate agreement,” Malfoy counters, groaning into her mouth as she runs her hands over his taut buttocks. “Struggling artists will take whatever they can get, you know.”

“’Struggling’, my arse– “ Hermione foregoes any further shammed reluctance as Draco’s mouth firms and seals on her own, closing her eyes as heady sensation saturates her consciousness. Unfortunately, they have barely begun to kiss in earnest when a persistent banging floats up from the townhouse’s front door.

“Ignore it – they’ll go away eventually,” Hermione orders, between frantic lip-locks.

“We can’t – it’s likely your parents, they said they’d be arriving about now.” Draco glumly sets her away from him. “It’s probably for the best… we still need to be careful of your ankle, and your concussion.”

 _Nope. I’m not having it – we’ll see how long you can hold out later, you talented, sexy snake_. Hermione suppresses her lascivious grin as Draco laces his fingers through hers and walks them out the studio’s door.

“Don’t take any crap from my dad – he’s a guest in your home, remember,” Hermione pouts, crossing the fingers of her other hand that Bernard Granger will pull in his head and behave civilly during the visit.

“ _Our_ home,” Draco corrects. He smiles down guilelessly at her as they descend the stairs.

Hermione is too overcome with euphoria to do anything but blink away her joyful tears.

* * *

**French translation:**

_Ma chérie... Je ne peux pas supporter l'idée que tu sois blessée à nouveau. –_ My darling heart... I can't stand the thought of you being hurt again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this comes across as 'too sappy'; I'm laying on the fluff thickly in the hopes of cushioning the future angst blows.  
> I've had a killer headache most of the day and have lost all perspective. Sorry.


	36. Etymology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my darling husband Andrew.  
> We've been married 8 years today.  
> Andy, thank you for enduring my hyperfixations and contrariness and endless queries about what sex feels like for men (admittedly, your standard response of "I don't know - it feels good, alright?" hasn't been particularly helpful).  
> I hope you do read this one day and realize anew how much I love you (to the library and back, should you need that qualified).  
> ❣❣❣❣❣❣❣❣

__

_Wednesday 12 March 2003: PM_

“Her Grace Lady Granger is home! Macdolas is beside himself with joy, but Master Malfoy asks Macdolas to be staying quiet and busy in kitchen, preparing the friands! Master says Grace Lady Granger must be having rest and tranquillity!”.

Draco winces as his manservant’s squeaking voice climbs higher than an alpine mountain goat at the sight of Hermione slowly descending the first floor stairs. _So tranquil_. He bites back his rebuke as he remembers his huge debt of gratitude to the plucky little house elf. Hermione charges toward her miniature saviour as he jiggles excitedly by the closed front door.

She kneels and sweeps Macdolas into a tight hug. “Oh, Mac! It’s so good to see you – Draco was being a tad overprotective, I would have loved to have had you meet me when I first arrived… Never mind.” Pulling back a little, she tugs Macdolas’s deerstalker hat back into place and tells him, “Mac, I can never thank you properly for coming to my rescue… for saving my _life_ … you have my eternal gratitude. And love. Thank you – thank you from the bottom of my heart, you darling little treasure.” Hermione squashes him into another constrictive embrace as she blubs over the last words.

 _Oh, hell’s bells_. Judging by Macdolas’s high wheezing breaths, he is either trying not to cry or genuinely having trouble accessing oxygen. Draco hastens to intervene before his emotional girlfriend commits unintentional… elficide?

“Granger – I think he gets the message – let go, _ma petite_ , the poor little bugger is struggling to breathe– “ he manages to prise loose her hands as Macdolas sucks down some much-needed air. The background soundtrack of steady knocks on the front door increases in pace and volume as Hermione profusely apologizes to the midget major-domo.

“Alright, he’ll survive. I’m going to answer the door before your father has an apoplectic attack.” Draco fashions a welcoming smile onto his dial and swings open the heavy wooden door.

He doesn’t have a chance to speak the polite words he has ready on his lips before Bernard Granger snaps, “About bloody time, boy! What was going on in there? Scattering rose petals on the floor, or something?”

“Barney – if you are going to be a nasty cuss, you can turn around right now and leave me to Floo home,” his wife sounds scarily like Hermione as she dresses down her cantankerous spouse. “Either apologize to Draco, or get lost.” Jane Granger’s displeased demeanour segues into a sunny smile as she accepts Draco’s hand to lead her into the townhouse.

“Thank you, Draco. You have a lovely home, and in such a pleasant part of town. Hello, Hermione sweetie. And Macdolas! Good morning,” Jane gently pats the big-eyed elf’s shoulder as she kisses her daughter on the cheek and begins removing her heavy coat. Draco murmurs his greetings as he assists her by hanging the dark grey coat and jet scarf on the hallway rack. He is peripherally aware of a sullen Bernard stomping through the door and dispensing with his own outerwear, muttering an insincere “Sorry” in Draco’s general direction.

Schooling his features to hide his schadenfreude at Mr Granger’s castigation, Draco is amused to witness Bernard’s brown eyes round as he gets his first good look at Macdolas’s apparel. “Zounds – is that… is that a Sherlock Holmes costume you’re wearing, Macdolas?” Hermione’s father breathes astonishedly.

Macdolas superciliously corrects, “Macdolas advises it is a _homage_ to the Great Literary Detective Sherlock Holmes, Father Dentist of Her Grace Lady Granger… sir,” he tacks on, strutting as he shakes out a few wrinkles from the long camel-coloured tweed caped overcoat that matches his double-brimmed hat. Macdolas appears to have customized the look by including an outer breast pocket to showcase a miniature pipe and magnifying glass, and a monocle is pinned beside it. Draco wonders if the monocle was specifically oversized, to accommodate the Scottish steward’s disproportionally large watermelon-green eyes.

“Indeed. Well, it’s… something, alright. Really… something,” Bernard fumbles.

 _Anyone would think he’s never seen a fashionista house elf wearing a fictional Victorian sleuth’s ‘homage’_ , Draco internally chuckles. He adopts his gracious host’s mantle as he remarks, “I hope you had a pleasant trip into St John’s Wood, Mr Granger?”. He indicates for Bernard to precede him into the lounge room; Hermione and her mother have already made their way there and are seated on the lowline powder blue sofa, chatting quietly. Macdolas trots behind them and fusses at the linen tablecloth and morning tea setting he has already arranged on the central coffee table.

Bernard flumps into the nearby armchair. “Well, we’d have been here a damned sight sooner if we hadn’t had to circle the block twice in search of a car park – and then walk half a mile after we finally found one,” he discloses disgruntledly.

“Did I not mention this morning that I’d made the Floo network available to you and Jane, sir?” Draco is puzzled; he could have sworn he’d made a point of same before he and Hermione had Disapparated from St Mungo’s. He perches on the edge of the opposing armchair, while Macdolas finds fault with one of the cake forks and begins furiously polishing it with a pristine white tea towel he magicks into existence.

“Dad distrusts using the Floo, Malfoy – he has an irrational fear of being ‘sucked into the void’ like Mike Teavee,” Hermione dryly supplies. “From ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’?”.

Draco nods; it takes all of his self-control to not smirk at Mr Granger’s eccentricity. _Muggles... and they think wizards are fantastical._

“I suspect he just uses that as an excuse to take his beloved Jag on a run,” Jane quirks an eyebrow as she shares a knowing smile with Hermione. “I swear, sometimes I think you love that car more than you do me, Barney.”

“What tosh, Jane – you know that I worship at your dainty feet, honey. If anything, I restored the Jag so we could spend more time together… relive our salad days… do you remember that road trip we took to Edinburgh, our second year of uni? In my little old red ’72 Ford Cortina?” Bernard reminisces with a fond smile.

“I’m hardly likely to forget it, Barney,” Jane casts a significant side glance at Hermione, which her husband apparently doesn’t catch as he continues,

“I can’t even recall why we were so hell-bent on going, that weekend… was there some sort of early Christmas market happening? We were still ten miles from the B&B when the front tyre blew; and I’d forgotten to check the spare was inflated… oh, weren’t you fit to kill when I said we’d have to walk, or spend the night in the car?” he chuckles, a gleam in his espresso eyes.

Jane warns, “Bernard – I’m sure Draco isn’t interested in this story – “

“No, no, it’s fascinating,” Draco plays devil’s advocate. “Do continue, Mr Granger.”

Bernard’s deep baritone drowns out both women as an alarmed Hermione pipes up, “Dad – please don’t– “

“It was a good thing I always carried plenty of blankets in the boot… and an emergency bag of supplies. We feasted on chocolate bars and drank cheap red wine, warmed up nicely in the back bench seat; for a small car, it was surprisingly roomy… we had everything we needed – “

“Except one very important item, Bernard,” Jane sighs. “Something you assured me you had packed but which was… missing… at a rather critical moment…”

Judging by the mortified look on Hermione’s face, Draco has little doubt as to the identity of the ‘missing item’. He chokes back a laugh as his brunette girlfriend glares at him and makes a classic cut-off gesture with her hand at her throat.

Bernard scrabbles at the collar of his brown plaid heavy cotton shirt as he aggrievedly defends, “Jane, I did pack them! They must have fallen out when I moved the spare tyre.”

“Macdolas respectfully asks Father Dentist Granger what falls out when the tyre moves?” Macdolas chirps, as Jane and Hermione glare at a fidgeting Bernard. The sprite’s head is cocked like a sparrow’s as he swings his goggled eyes back and forth between the Granger family members.

“Go on, Dad – you may as well tell Mac… you just had to keep this dubious little anecdote rolling,” Hermione testily remarks.

“Oh… er… um…” Mr Granger’s voice diminishes to a whisper as he stutters, “Con… con… doms, Macdolas.”

“Con… Doms?” the befuddled seneschal repeats. “Con Doms is a person?”

“More like the lack of ‘Con Doms’ became a person,” Jane mutters crossly. Bernard turns the colour of an overripe tomato as he hunches his lanky frame deeper into the armchair.

 _Oh, this is pure gold_ , Draco gleefully reflects. _Talk about digging one’s own grave!_ As if she can hear his uncharitable thoughts, Hermione directs her scowl in his direction and narrows her expressive chocolate eyes.

“I’ll explain it to you later, Macdolas; may we have morning tea now, please?” Draco deflects the attention away from the controversial topic with some regret. Watching Bernard coming under heavy fire from his wife and daughter is a diverting change of pace, but he fears Hermione’s wrath more than he wants to see her father sweat and squirm.

“Macdolas brings the morning tea forthwith, Master Malfoy!” he trots back to the kitchen with surprising grace, considering his knobby little knees.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the four humans. Draco clears his throat in preparation of making some desultory small talk when the Floo fireplace flares green.

Lady Narcissa Malfoy steps out, accompanied by Ruibby. The former flaps a crisply folded newspaper as she makes a beeline for her startled son, who scrambles to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he sees Bernard Granger also rising.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy: since when do you leave it to The Daily Prophet to inform your long-suffering mother that your newly-minted girlfriend was attacked and _hospitalized_? ‘How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!’” Lady Malfoy’s voice is pure ice as she upbraids her son. A wide-eyed Ruibby lightly tugs the sleeve of Narcissa’s silver-blue robes in warning as she notices their audience.

“Oh! My apologies; I did not realize Draco had company,” Narcissa transforms from infuriated matriarch to blue-blooded social butterfly in the blink of an eye. “I’m Narcissa Malfoy, and this is our housekeeper, Ruibby. Hermione, dear – it is such a relief to see you looking well, and unharmed,” she smiles.

“Mother, Ruibby: please allow me to introduce Mr and Mrs Granger,” Draco tries to salvage the situation, as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down like a seesaw. Narcissa swishes closer and offers both parents her pale hand to shake, before leaning in to kiss Hermione’s cheek. Ruibby bobs a few curtseys, her big eyes impatiently flicking about the room.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lady Malfoy,” Jane Granger appears friendly, but cautious. Bernard looks somewhat starstruck as he repeats his wife’s salutation.

“Do call me Narcissa, please; no need to stand on formalities, seeing as how our children are dating,” Narcissa decrees.

“Do you find their romantic situation as odd as I do, Narcissa? Young Draco claims you’ve welcomed Hermione with open arms,” Bernard sounds as dubious as he looks. “Perhaps I sound rather blunt; but it’s difficult for me to reconcile your current liberal attitude with some of your family’s past behaviours, considering the harm you inflicted upon my daughter,” he steamrolls, doggedly ignoring Jane’s clucking disapproval and Hermione’s groan.

Before Draco can jump to his mother’s defence, Narcissa calmly and firmly puts Bernard in his place.

“Let me assure you, Mr Granger: if I harboured the slightest reservations about Draco and Hermione’s relationship, I would not be standing here today. While I do understand your ambivalence over their strong connection, it seems to me that _you_ are the one unwilling to let go of past prejudices and trauma. If the Malfoys can admit their wrongs and engender sincere and effective growth and maturity… could you not attempt the same?”.

She doesn’t wait for an answer as she seats herself beside a grinning Hermione and a composed Jane on the three-seater modern couch, beckoning Ruibby to sit in the small corner spot.

Bernard opens and closes his mouth stupidly as Narcissa fires a final salvo straight into his deflating sails: “And after all, the only opinions that matter on this issue are Draco and Hermione’s; and from what I have witnessed of their mutual bond, they have well and truly moved on from the past. We would do well to follow their example, Mr Granger.”

_Ah, Mother… if only you’d gone into politics… you terrify me almost as much as you impress me._

Draco openly smirks, as Mr Granger quietly announces, “Bernard.”

“I beg your pardon?” Narcissa sniffs delicately.

“You may as well call me Bernard, seeing as how you’ve emulated my wife and daughter in once again proving women are the far smarter (and more ferocious) sex,” Bernard declares. His perfectly-aligned white teeth slowly form a sheepish grin as he ruffles at his dark auburn hair. “I believe I’ll quit while I’m behind, so to speak.”

“Good idea, Dad,” Hermione has a dig at her father as Narcissa’s tinkling laugh joins Jane’s slow clap. Even Ruibby covers her wide mouth with her hand, though her violet eyes are dancing with shared merriment.

Macdolas re-enters the room, expertly balancing a laden tray on each hand; he bobbles them at the unanticipated sight of two more guests, but his skilled telekinesis corrects the slide just in time and places both securely in the middle of the coffee table as he gawks fixedly at Ruibby.

“Lady Malfoy and the beautiful Ruibby grace the Townhouse of Malfoy with their illustrious presence… Macdolas knows he bakes extra friands for good reason – though he does not know the reason until now!” he joyously exclaims.

The elven object of his affections shyly replies, “Ruibby asks to accompany Lady Malfoy… Ruibby reads of Macdolas’s heroic rescue of Her Grace Lady Granger, she wishes to commend Macdolas and offers him a small token of her esteem…” the little maidservant digs in the front pocket of her frilled white apron to produce a roundish item made of leather and tartan, with three small tassels at the front.

“Tis the traditional sporran of the Clan Fhionnlaigh!” Macdolas solves the mystery in a jiffy, as Ruibby gives a pleased nod.

“Ruibby works yet on sewing the matching kilt, that Macdolas wears at future ceremonies of acknowledgment and honour for his bravery and courage,” she imparts with a proud tilt to her pointy nose. “Ruibby tells Macdolas of her pride in his good deeds; Macdolas brings grand glory to his people.”

 _Merlin’s beard – Macdolas might just faint from rapture, judging by his giddy expression and erratic balance._ Draco leaps from his chair to clamp a steadying hand on the overcome munchkin’s angular shoulder, whispering, “Buck up, champ: remember, be cool and build on this. Say ‘thank you’ and move on, hmmm?”.

Nodding feverishly, Macdolas croaks, “The Beautiful and Capable Ruibby is most kind, to bequeath such bounty upon her devoted humble servant Macdolas… he is most unworthy yet accepts with overflowing gratitude.”

Draco overhears Bernard asking Hermione in a hushed aside, “Is this performance art?” as Macdolas’s inner vaudevillian surfaces, with another impossibly deep bow and a dramatic flourish of the ridiculous deerstalker hat. The tiny corncob pipe clatters to the wooden floor as Bernard applauds.

“Bravo!”. Ruibby blushes as Macdolas snaps back to attention and levitates the dropped smoking paraphernalia back into his coat pocket. He also produces two more cake plates, forks, tea cups, and saucers from thin air, and rearranges the coffee table setting to reflect the added visitors.

“Ruibby helps to pour the tea?” she petitions, not waiting for assent as she busies herself with carefully doling out the steaming Earl Grey, milk, and sugar.

“Lemon drizzle friands – splendid,” Bernard rubs together his hands in keen anticipation as Macdolas offers him a plate and the platter of warm, fragrant little oval cakes. “I tend to stick to my tried and true recipe of blueberry ones, but this smells and looks wonderful. Thank you, Mac.”

“Oh, do you enjoy baking, Bernard?” Narcissa enquires, before sipping slowly at her tea.

Waiting until he’s swallowed his first bite of French almond cake, Bernard answers, “Yes – I developed into a fairly capable cook, when I was Hermione’s primary caregiver. Jane and I are both dentists, but I deferred my studies to raise our girl while Jane continued her degree and started our practice. I finished my education once Hermione started school.”

Curiosity engaged, Narcissa diplomatically presses, “Isn’t that a rather unusual demarcation of parental responsibility?… given the era, I mean. Not so much nowadays, thank goodness.” She almost snorts as she divulges, “I believe the closest my husband ever came to changing one of Draco’s nappies was sticking his nose in the air and summoning the nearest house elf to deal with his smelly son.”

Jane Granger responds, “Well, Bernard felt largely responsible for the… surprising predicament we found ourselves in, regarding Hermione’s conception; we agreed it made sense for him to stay home with the baby,” she smiles.

“I reckon I did everything I could, bar breastfeeding Little Wendy,” Bernard states proudly. “But I’ve read some fascinating studies that speculate such a thing may be possible for men, should evolution one day require it– “

“Dad, please! We’re trying to eat here,” a scandalized Hermione shares a look of horror with Draco at the thought of being breastfed by her father.

 _Eww_. Draco sets aside his own friand for the moment, marvelling at the utter weirdness of this entire grouping. Ruibby is sitting back beside his mother, with Macdolas locating himself on the arm of the sofa (almost but not quite brushing the female elf’s arm). They are taking turns at pretending not to stare at one another, only to lock intense gazes before hurriedly looking away; no wonder Bernard thought the pair were conducting performance art.

_I’m actually rather enjoying myself… and Mother seems to have already won over Hermione’s parents. Amazing._

“Just making conversation, Hermione,” Bernard grumbles. “What would you have me talk about, then?”

Hermione hesitates, before she looks to Draco. “Malfoy… may I please tell Mum and Dad what you showed me, this morning? Upstairs?” she waggles her eyebrows for emphasis. Mr Granger nearly swallows his next friand whole as his daughter chides, “Relax, Dad – it’s nothing inappropriate, which is more than I can say for your chosen subjects of discourse this morning.”

Draco wills his ears not to pinken. “Go ahead, Granger. It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, but it is!” Hermione contradicts. She speaks the next sentences as though she’s cracked the equation for successful alchemy.

“Draco is an incredibly gifted painter… he’s _Vouivre_ ,” she imparts breathlessly.

Jane’s hazel eyes light up as she sets her tea cup down upon the tabletop. “That beautiful exhibit you encouraged us to attend last year, in Mayfair? With the snowscapes and moors? Oh, Draco!” she exclaims in wonderment, as Hermione nods excitedly.

“Rather Bohemian of you, boy– Draco,” Bernard reacts instantly to Narcissa’s disparaging raised eyebrows at his belittling address to her son. “I mean, your paintings showed some real talent, certainly. I’ve long been a keen supporter of the fine arts… we always brought Hermione along with us to visit museums, and the like. Since she was just a wee bairn – popped her in the Baby Björn and away we’d go.’

“Although, I hadn’t realized that Hogwarts offered much in the way of art classes,” Bernard ponders. “Was that an extra elective? Hermione’s a genius, but she brought home so many strangely bleeding rainbows from nursery school that we had the devil of a time praising them based on artistic merit. Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles as his daughter’s lips twist in a peeved pout.

Draco quickly rejoins, “No, Mr Granger; I had private tutors when I was younger… and studied abroad, a few years ago.”

“Right, right – one of the perks of being filthy rich – I mean, loaded – erm, independently wealthy,” Bernard finally settles on an adjective.

“Barney, honestly – can you have a care with your runaway mouth, please?” rebukes his exasperated spouse.

Hermione comes to the conversational rescue this time. “Excuse me, Narcissa: may I please look at the newspaper you brought with you? It’s this morning’s Daily Prophet, is that correct?”.

 _Oh, no_. Draco makes an abortive jerky movement to stop his mother handing over the wretched rag, but he is too late.

Narcissa lightly slaps his grabbing hand. “Draco, darling – Hermione _will_ find out, sooner rather than later. It’s far better to be prepared for the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’… as you well know,” she communicates meaningfully.

“I’ll read it aloud, shall I?” Hermione launches straight into the front page headline.

“’DISGRACED DEATH EATER DATES DUMBLEDORE’S DARLING’ – well, points for alliteration, I suppose – How dare they! Draco was not a true Death Eater, nor was he ‘disgraced’, and I was _never_ ‘Dumbledore’s Darling’, what rot–“ she growls, before continuing,

“‘High drama at the Ministry of Magic yesterday evening, as Miss Hermione Granger (famously known as the female member of The Golden Trio, who were integral in the defeat of Lord Voldemort and in winning the Second Wizarding War) was allegedly pushed down a flight of stairs when returning from a closed trial session in Courtroom Six. Mystery surrounds the event, but close sources report that a house elf named MacDonald – “

“Macdolas is not a MacDonald!” the elf in question indignantly squawks.

“Yes, I know, sorry, Mac – where was I… right. ‘A house elf named MacDonald came to the aid of the fallen heroine, and with the assistance of Ministry employee Mr Blaise Zabini and entrepreneur Mr Theo Nott, transported the unconscious witch to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, for emergency treatment. The Ministry’s Auror Division remains tight-lipped as to what actually transpired in the isolated passageway, but rumour has it that they apprehended a suspect, who remains under guard at the same hospital. The house elf MacDonald is believed to be an employee at Malfoy Manor.

‘Ministry employees have confirmed that Miss Granger herself recently announced she is involved in a romantic relationship with Mr Draco Malfoy. His family aligned themselves with the Dark Lord long before his return to corporeal form, and were eventually tried and sentenced for crimes committed during the terrible period of Voldemort’s Second Reign of Terror.

‘Mr Malfoy has not been seen in the public eye for some years, but created a spectacular scene yesterday when numerous witches and wizards witnessed him running at high speed through the Ministry not long after Miss Granger’s incident, knocking people out of his way as he tore back and forth. He departed as quickly as he’d arrived, only to immediately infiltrate the Reception Room of St Mungo’s and force his way to the head of the queue, roughly demanding to be informed of the whereabouts of The Brightest Witch of Her Age.’

‘Outrage turned to astonishment when none other than Auror Harry Potter – _The Boy Who Lived_ – vouched for Mr Malfoy and proceeded to accompany him into the hospital proper, presumably to escort him to Miss Granger’s room. See below for a photograph of Mr Malfoy snarling as he brandished his wand when hospital security were initially called to eject him from the establishment.’”

Flipping to the bottom half of the page, the Grangers crane their necks at the moving photograph depicting the moment Draco wielded his hawthorn wand at the two ‘trolls’ who’d responded to the Welcome Witch’s orders to oust him.

 _Ah, superb. I look as mad as the proverbial hatter. Crazy-eyed, sweaty, dirty, feral… waving around a drawn wand with my teeth bared. It’s a miracle they didn’t force me straight upstairs to the Janus Thickey Ward,_ Draco glumly concedes.

“Is there any more to the story, Hermione?” Jane Granger pats her daughter’s arm as Hermione seethes.

“’Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter were unavailable for comment’… blah blah blah… ‘Concerns have been raised as to the possibility that Miss Granger is acting under the compulsion of an illegal love potion’ – oh, that’s lovely, they’re insinuating that Draco is bloody drugging me, when he has been _protecting_ me from drug-pushers and rapists all along! Where do they dream up this garbage?!?” Hermione’s hands crumple the newspaper as she shakes with temper and anguish.

“Hush, sweetie, I know… they’ll print whatever they think sells the most copies,” her mother soothes.

Her placatory words don’t stem the tide of Hermione’s rage. “It’s not _fair_ – they’ve sprinkled just enough truth, and inserted an ‘allegedly’ here and a ‘possibly’ there, to avoid a retraction or a lawsuit… I feel like paying that rumour-mongering pretence of journalism a visit tomorrow, and blasting some integrity and responsibility into their stupid hides!”.

Draco rushes over to crouch in front of the agitated witch; sparks are flying from her fingertips as she aggressively clenches her fists open and shut.

He covers her little hands with his own as he entreats, “Hermione… _ma petite_ , please do not worry over this. It’s nothing – what is that saying? ‘Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chips papers’? Or perhaps, the lining for Crookshanks’s litter tray?” he smiles gently as his girlfriend wipes at her angry wet eyes and hiccoughs a half-cough, half-snort at his metaphors.

“Draco’s right, Little Wendy. You can’t pay any attention to these journo fools, they’ll simply feed on any retaliatory measures, anyway.” Back-up comes from an unexpected source as Bernard Granger leans across to pat his daughter on the back. “Although I wouldn’t mind clipping out that wild photo of your boyfriend to stick on the fridge,” he winks at a taken-aback Draco.

Heaving a few shuddering breaths, Hermione miserably agrees, “I know – but it’s so frustrating, Dad, how quickly they rush to savage Draco – and they’re _wrong_.”

 _My poor little lioness… always fighting the good fight, always outraged and bewildered by the willingness of other humans to choose to be petty, cruel and self-serving._ Draco gives his mother a significant look as he telepathically projects his request.

Narcissa rises gracefully to her feet as she softly decrees, “You’ve had an exhausting time of it, Hermione; I shall bid you adieu for now. Please, come visit the Manor whenever you like… perhaps to choose some more books from the library? Or send Macdolas to fetch them, of course. You are always welcome, dear. Rest up, and I look forward to seeing you soon.”

She turns to her maidservant. “Ruibby, please stay here and keep Macdolas company for the rest of the day – that’s an order. You deserve some more leisure time, and I know you’d like to take some proper measurements for his kilt.”

“Lady Malfoy is most kind. Ruibby returns to Malfoy Manor for the dinner service,” and she coyly bats her eyes at a thrilled Macdolas. The elvish pair begin gathering the morning tea accoutrements,

“We’d best be off, too,” Hermione’s parents kiss and lightly hug their daughter goodbye. “Lovely to meet you, Narcissa,” the Grangers say in unrehearsed unison.

“The pleasure was all mine, Jane and Bernard. We’ll have to make this a regular event, yes? Until next time. I’ll be in touch, Draco darling. _Au revoir, mon fils_ ,” and Narcissa steps into the fireplace, vanishing with a murmured destination and a puff of emerald smoke.

Draco snugs his arm around Hermione’s waist as they follow her parents to the hallway coat rack. After helping Jane with her coat and scarf and donning his own, Bernard sticks out his hand for Draco to shake.

“Thanks for having us, Draco. I’m satisfied that Hermione will be safe and well-cared for; but mind you don’t start taking her for granted – she’s a special woman, and the best daughter I could ever wish for,” Bernard gruffly pronounces.

“I won’t ever do that, sir,” Draco promises, soberly and sincerely. “Feel free to visit whenever you like.”

“We will. Thank you for having us here, Draco. We’ll see you both soon.” Jane accepts his cheek kiss and hugs her daughter in a final tight embrace.

“Bye Mum, Dad. I’ve got my mobile around here somewhere, if you want to text me. Or you can Floo-call?”.

Bernard blanches. “And run the risk of my disembodied head being stuck in a fireplace forever? No thanks! Bye, sweetie.”

Hermione stands at the open door with Draco as they wave goodbye.

As soon as the Grangers have walked out of sight, Draco shuts and locks the door. He turns, scooping a squeaking Hermione off her feet, and carries her up the staircase. “You’re in desperate need of a nap – no, don’t bother to deny it, Granger. Resistance is futile,” he deliberately jiggles her a little as he jogs faster up the last three steps and onto the landing, forcing her to link her hands behind his neck.

“Will you lie down with me?” Hermione supplicates, giving Ruibby a run for her money in the wide-eyed ingenue stakes as she flutters her long dark lashes and puckers her mouth invitingly. “Please? I always sleep better when you’re beside me.”

“Temptress… very well. But you need to rest, so rest we shall.” Draco aims for stern but his husky tone lands somewhere near ‘hopelessly accommodating’.

Hermione nods, lowering her lashes and nestling against his heart as he carries her into their bedroom.

“Of course… whatever you say, Malfoy.”

* * *

_Wednesday 12 March 2003: PM_

Draco is dreaming, and it is glorious. Hermione is languorously rubbing her soft, naked body against his, licking little kisses along his sensitive sharp jawline and throat. Her luxuriant chestnut curls tumble sensuously against his skin as she gently pushes him onto his back and lies fully atop his long body. Their height difference means her little toes rest on the top of his shins as she mashes her bare breasts to his pale chest. His groin is extremely interested in the way she is teasing him with brushes of her sex up and down his pelvis; he groans as she lines up her outer lips with his bellend and wriggles to increase the friction.

His eyes snap open: _this is no dream_. Their bedroom is half-bathed in early afternoon spring sunshine, the ambient light glowing around the semi-drawn curtains and dappling the snow white duvet upon which they lie. And he’s not fully naked, but Hermione has done an impressive job of unbuttoning every fastening on his plain cream spread-collared casual shirt, and has managed to push it free to expose the length and breadth of his torso. His dark brown twill chinos have been skilfully unzipped, the fly opened and his black boxer briefs slipped down far enough to free his cock and scrotum.

 _Why, the brazen, sneaky little witch!_ Draco snakes out his hands to cup her bottom, which is _definitely_ nude.

“Oh! You’re awake!” Hermione yelps, as he clamps down on her shapely rump to check her rhythmic wiggles.

“Yes – and isn’t it interesting, how our ‘restorative nap’ has morphed into your sly seduction, Granger? Would you call this consensual? I can’t help but feel you’re using me for my exceptional cock,” he teases.

“I am not!” she hotly denies. “And I was just about to fully awaken you – besides, you started it, you were feeling me up in my sleep!” Hermione claims.

“Feeling you up in your sleep – a likely story,” Draco scoffs, just to revel in her predictable ire. “And you _do_ admit my cock is exceptional? Don’t be shy, _ma petite_ … it is would be wildly out of character for you, at this point.”

“I’ll stop, if you’re going to be a _dick_ about it,” Hermione puns, snuffling out an irrepressible chuckle. She lowers her head to stare worriedly into his smiling grey eyes. “Are you truly upset? I would never take advantage of you, Malfoy.”

“I know, I know – I was jesting. You make it too easy sometimes, Granger,” he tenderly chides, running his left hand along the length of her spine before cupping her nape and kissing her softly. “But I must take you to task on one point: you’ve robbed me of the joy of slowly undressing you,” he rumbles.

“I can put my shirt and pants back on, if you like?” Hermione deadpans.

Shaking his head to negate the silly idea, Draco carefully flips her onto her back, reversing their positions with a chuckle. “No way – I happen to think this is your best look… stark naked on our bed, with a lovely lazy afternoon for me to show you the pleasures of the flesh,” he leers.

“Have at it,” Hermione stretches her hands above her head and fakes a huge yawn. “You should always finish what you started; it’s good business practice.” She closes her eyes on a sigh, only to crack open one eyelid with an impatient, “Well?”.

“Hold your Horned Serpents – your groping didn’t extend to completely divesting me of my clothing, you know… and I’d best cast a contraceptive charm, after hearing your father’s cautionary tale earlier– “

“I’ve already done it – and I beg you, desist from mentioning the ignominious circumstances surrounding my conception EVER again,” Hermione groans, flinging an arm across her face as Draco laughs unreservedly.

She glares crabbily at him as he continues chortling whilst rapidly divesting his shirt, socks, jocks, and trousers. “How would _you_ like it if your father repeatedly told everyone – from the supermarket cashier to most of his patients, for goodness sake! – that you were spawned in the back seat of a Ford Cortina, Malfoy? Huh?”.

The thought of Lucius and Narcissa being somehow jammed into the back of a small Muggle car whilst embarking on enthusiastic coitus makes Draco’s laughter die mid-snigger. “ _Nooooo_ ….”

“Yeah – you’re feeling me now, aren’t you?” Hermione comments in grim amusement. “Now get in this bed and make good on your lofty assertions, please; and for the love of lions, don’t mention any of our parents while we’re about to ‘fadoodle’,” she winks.

“Say that again, you sexy little bookworm – don’t stop there, whisper ‘ye olde English’ sexual euphemisms into my delicate ear until I’m overcome with repressed lust,” Draco challenges, as he pounces onto the bed and stalks to hover over his giggling girlfriend, caging her beneath him.

“Play nug-a-nug? Grind the corn? Houghmagandy? Pogue the hone? Dance the kipples? Princum-prantum? My favourite – join giblets?” Hermione gasps as her mirth escalates.

“You had me at ‘poguing the hone’, you brilliant witch,” Draco laughs along with her, captivated by how much _fun_ she is. “I do hope you saved some archaic terms for future princum-prantums, though.”

He doesn’t give Hermione a chance to answer, swooping down to claim her mouth with an elated possessiveness that she hungrily reciprocates. Draco lowers his body until they are skin-to-skin once more; her rosy nipples are beaded and feel sublime as they drag across his heated alabaster flesh.

He reluctantly tears away his lips to verify, “Granger – are you positive you’re well enough for this? You were in hospital just this morning, and your ankle – “

“Grrr! Malfoy, I am _fine_. Better than fine – I’m splendiferous. Or I would be, if you’d stop fretting and finally ‘play at rumpscuttle and clapperdepouch’!” Hermione whines.

“I love it when you talk obscurely dirty to me… very well, prepare to have your rump scuttled and your pouch de-clappered – or should that be clappered?” Draco echoes her earlier motion and grinds his stiff glans against her mons.

“Clapper me, Malfoy,” Hermione groans, firmly tugging his head down to capture his bottom lip between her own, tilting up her hips to match him stroke for stroke. She spreads her thighs a little wider to better facilitate their frottage.

 _What have I done to deserve such blessings?_ Draco dazedly wonders, as he surrenders to his deep desire to worship his gorgeous witch with his hands, mouth, and body. It takes a huge effort of will not to increase the tempo of his slow thrusts, but he wants to wring every last drop of pleasure from their coupling. _I almost lost her_ … he forces his panic to stay in abeyance at the heinous thought.

 _You are mine_ … he nips a line of rapacious kisses up and down her slim neck, before he imbues the unspoken declaration into his next passionate kiss.

 _I am yours_ … he nods, as she slides her thumbs between their bodies to flicker over his pebbled nipples, her uniquely striated brown eyes reflecting his thrill at the delicate caress.

 _Laisse moi t'aimer pour toujours_ … he sucks in a ragged breath as her little fingers guide his hard length inside her hot, tight sheath; she smiles up at him with pure joy and awe. Draco is torn between keeping their mouths fused in passionate osculation, or leaning away just enough to drown in her intelligent, stunning whiskey eyes.

He splits the difference and times his kisses with every other slow thrust, as their magic faintly sparkles around them, making the tiny dust motes dance in the mottled sunbeams strafing the bed. Hermione's hands cup his hips, pulling him deeper inside her warm, wet channel, as her feet rub against the back of his calves.

 ** _Draco… do you feel it, too?_** Hermione’s psychic voice asks. **_Our magic? Our cores?_**

 ** _I do,_ ma petite**. Draco smiles as he sees her ‘hearing’ his telepathic response, pupils blown and shining. **_You are so special… feel what you do to me, Hermione._**

Concentrating hard, Draco opens his consciousness, transmitting his invitation for Hermione to share in his metaphysical euphoria. He startles involuntarily when he senses her reciprocation; fleeting images and emotions tumble and whirl around their minds. Their first kiss, outside her flat; his unexpressed longing as he’d watched over her sleeping form, the night he found her on his doorstep; the excitement and enchantment of her first brave acceptance of his erotic ‘gauntlet’; the repeated, quiet contentment of waking up spooned together…

The reflective connection is too intense to maintain for long. He restricts it to a brief burst of transcendental mutuality before gently withdrawing, spinning back into his own psyche and body with regret. Their bodies are still moving together in timeless harmony, their breaths syncing as they climb steadily to peak.

Draco focuses on keeping his own climax at bay. He wants… he _needs_ to experience Hermione falling apart around him. He slowly switches up the cadence of their lovemaking, adjusting his position so his knees and one elbow take his weight, allowing him to nudge his left hand down to her clitoris. He thumbs her swollen pink nub, pressing harder as Hermione’s back arches and her keens grow louder.

“ _Oui... c'est ça, ma chérie. Laisse-toi aller, Je m’occupe… je m’occupe de… de te faire..._ come, Hermione.” She obliges, gripping his hips to hold him fast as she whispers his name like a prayer, her sex clamping on his cock in throbbing waves. Blessing his iron control, Draco somehow manages to keep pumping his hips, until her strong squeezes have eased to flutters. Emulating his lover, he brokenly murmurs her name as he stares reverentially into her flushed, happy face, his body tensing and relaxing as his orgasm sends electric tingles zooming throughout his quivering frame.

Hermione deliberately flexes beneath him, setting off a series of little aftershocks that have Draco purring like a sleepy cat. He stays buried within her delectable body as she grins, “It isn’t ‘olde English’ – but that’s what Muggles like to call ‘afternoon delight’.”

“’Skyrockets in flight’? Nailed it,” Draco hoarsely avers, as Hermione chortles.

“Godric’s gizzards, Malfoy – is there anything you don’t know?” she pokes him in the ribs in mock-vexation.

 _I don’t know what the hell you’re doing with me._ Draco lets the uneasy notion remain unexpressed – no need to be a killjoy.

“I know you’re the sexiest, smartest, sassiest woman in the world, Hermione Jean Granger. And I know how bloody lucky I am to be your boyfriend,” he settles for, instead.

Hermione beams as she wraps her arms around his chest and encourages his weight to briefly crush her into the bed.

“Have I told you lately what a treasure you are, Draco Lucius Malfoy? No? Well, I’ll give you a short refractory period, before I commence a verbal and practical demonstration, if you like…”

Draco nods emphatically as his bossy witch yanks down his head for a searing kiss. _Oh yes, I like. You have no idea how much I like everything about you, Hermione… I will tell you, though._

_Soon._

* * *

**French translation:**

_Au revoir, mon fils_ – Goodbye, my son.

 _Laisse moi t'aimer pour toujours_ – Let me love you forever.

 _Oui... c'est ça, ma chérie. Laisse-toi aller, Je m’occupe… je m’occupe de… de te faire..._ – Yes... that's it, my darling. Let yourself go, I have you... I have you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my Official Muse @Recoveringjaddict5 for graciously allowing me to pilfer Bernard's propensity for telling his embarrassing 'Hermione's conception' story to all and sundry.  
> And thanks also for every other brilliant Bernard and Jane backstory prompt that now lives in my flea market brain. You did this - THANK YOU 💗🤗💗.
> 
> 'The Infamous Granger Nativity Story' is the ficlet that details Hermione's conception. If you're interested, it's at https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175865/chapters/63694465


	37. Domesticity

__

_Thursday 13 March 2003: AM_

Hermione yawns, keeping her eyes closed as she languidly scissors her legs back and forth on the expensive linens on Draco’s ( _no, **our**_ ) big bed. She takes a moment to let that sink in… _Draco told me I can stay as long as I wish… have we officially moved in together, and I missed the memo??_

_Don’t get ahead of yourself, woman. Enjoy what you have for once, and quit over-analyzing every offhand remark or tender gesture. Right. Easier said than done, of course. And then – the way our magical cores united again –_

_No. Just stop. Get up and greet the day, and save your theories for proper research._ She opens her eyes and flips back the bedding, her blinking brown eyes confirming that she is alone in their bedroom. Draco had nagged her relentlessly last night about taking a Dreamless Sleep potion; she’d downed the purple medicine at last mostly to stop his endless arguments and rationalizations of why she _had_ to ingest it for a decent night’s sleep.

She does feel marvellously refreshed this morning, but telling Draco that feels like admitting that he was right to harangue her… _pfft_. Her lips curve as she remembers their silly banter yesterday, after he awoke from their nap and discovered her energetically seducing him. _It’s so refreshing to riff against his keen mind_ … if anyone had told her a few months ago she’d be quoting historic terms for sexual congress while thoroughly enjoying sexual congress with Draco Malfoy, she would have thought them completely barmy.

“There’s nowt so queer as folk,” Hermione declares aloud, as she quickly makes the bed. No doubt Mac will come upstairs at some point to either redress the bed with fresh linens, or remake it to his lofty standards, but the minor effort of resetting it now makes her feel like she might just belong here. _Maybe_.

Opening the wardrobe, she takes a moment to appreciate how swiftly and generously Draco has assimilated her presence into his home. Malfoy’s meticulously ordered clothing has been completely rearranged to make way for her (decidedly less fine) apparel, including her allotment of the top half of the tallboy’s drawers for her underwear, socks, and accessories. Hermione’s meagre collection of jewellery has been carefully positioned atop the large chest of drawers, in the battered but well-loved ‘ballerina’ music box her parents gave her for her seventh birthday. The juxtaposition of her suburban shabbiness mingling with Draco’s sophisticated opulence makes her smile.

Hermione dresses quickly in comfortable old blue jeans, a plain white long-sleeved cotton t-shirt, and a peacock-green woollen sweater that covers her from neck to hips. She darts into the bathroom to run a brush through her hair and twist a soft elastic tie around her low ponytail, before stuffing her socked feet into her trusty flats and making her way downstairs. Her wand is safely tucked into the right pocket of her jeans; she isn’t going anywhere without it for the foreseeable future.

Pausing at the open kitchen door, Hermione recognizes Harry’s voice inside the room. She halts, shamelessly eavesdropping just out of sight of the room’s occupants.

“Malfoy, why is Mac having trouble looking you in the eye? He’s been acting funny since I arrived.”

Draco groans. “Probably because I busted him and Ruibby madly snogging in the hallway when I wandered downstairs to make a snack for us, yesterday evening – Potter, I would willingly undergo a full eyeball and memory scouring to make that image disappear forever, let me tell you… He had her up against the wall, and you don’t want to know where his gnarly little hands were headed – “

“No, stop! You’re right, I really don’t want to know! Bloody hell, why’d you have to share that disturbing scenario?” Harry gripes.

“It gets worse – thanks to Hermione’s big-mouthed father, I also have to explain to Macdolas what condoms are, if you can believe it… Have you heard Bernard Granger’s ‘conception story’ yet, Potter?” Draco remarks gloomily.

“What, the infamous Granger nativity anecdote? “’Twas a cold Edinburgh winter night, in the back of a ’72 Ford Cortina…” Harry laughs. “He’s still banging on about that, then?”

“Did you have to use that particular verb? And yes, he regaled us with the legend yesterday at morning tea, much to Hermione and her mother’s embarrassment. Proud as punch that he ‘accidentally’ impregnated his wife, and determined to announce it to the world.” Draco chuckles. “You should have seen Hermione’s face, though… “.

“I can imagine,” Harry joins in the mirth. Hermione decides the time is right to break up their little amusement party.

“Talking smack about me behind my back, huh?” She grins as both men startle and begin to rise from their seats at the kitchen table as she sashays into the room. “No, don’t get up, please. Hi, Harry,” she bends to give her best friend a quick kiss on the cheek, before she happily plonks down onto Draco’s lap.

“Hello, boyfriend,” she plants a sultry smooch on his surprised mouth, ignoring Harry’s grumble.

Draco wraps his strong arms around her, but breaks their kiss far too early to reply, “Hello, girlfriend. Are you hungry? May I pour you a coffee, and get you some breakfast?”.

“Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of sourcing both myself, in a moment. Let me just soak up the simple joy of disconcerting Harry with our domestic felicity,” Hermione smirks.

“At least it’s not house elf PDAs, I suppose, ” Harry laughs anew as Draco closes his eyes, a pained expression on his fair face.

“Leave Mac and Ruibby alone, the pair of you; I think they’re just adorable,” Hermione remonstrates.

“Ah, but you didn’t see them going at it like a couple of horny teenagers… in our hallway, no less!” Draco complains. “Although – I should be grateful Mac showed enough restraint not to lead her into his room.”

“C’mon, Malfoy – that’s uncalled for,” Harry dramatically covers his ears with his hands as Hermione giggles. She slides off Draco’s lap to make good on her breakfast plans.

“Would anyone like another coffee? I’ll make a fresh pot,” Hermione offers. Draco jumps up, standing behind her at the bench, nuzzling kisses into her slender neck as he lightly grips her hips.

“No – go sit back down, _ma petite_. I’ll make the coffee, and cook you an omelette: how about ham and cheese? Maybe some sliced mushrooms? Potter, would you like some?”

Harry flicks his glance back to them, appearing only mildly astonished at the invitation; he pushes his round spectacles back into position as he replies, “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.”

“Malfoy, you don’t need to cook anything for me – I’m happy to make myself some toast,” Hermione is unable to resist leaning back into Draco’s embrace, basking in the warmth of his light touches and the wonderful allure of his unique scent.

To her disappointment, he shifts away, patting her rump gently before pushing her back toward the table. “I want to prepare you a decent breakfast; and Harry needs to speak with you. And Mac,” Draco divulges.

Hermione occupies Draco’s recently vacated chair, made apprehensive by Draco’s sober tone. “Harry? Is there something wrong? Has Flint awoken? Did you find something in his house?” she fires the questions at the Auror as her anxiety mounts. She is peripherally aware of Draco calling quietly for Macdolas, who speedily marches into the kitchen and perches on the opposite seat, leaving Harry between and facing them. Mac is wearing… a Canadian Mountie uniform? The gold buttons on the red tailored jacket twinkle beneath the warm lights of the dining area.

“Macdolas bids good morning to Her Grace Lady Granger, and hello again to The Most Mighty and Accomplished Ministry of Magic Auror Master Harry James Potter,” his ears waggle happily as she reaches across the wooden table to affectionately squeeze his hand and return his greeting. Draco makes a scoffing noise (presumably at Harry’s beefed-up title) as he sets about the business of whipping up Hermione’s omelette.

“Guys – I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. Marcus Flint remains unconscious; we didn’t find a shred of evidence in his home to link him to the roofie conspiracy; and his family are kicking up a stink about his arrest. They’re claiming it’s a case of mistaken identity, and there’s talk of their intention to try to have Macdolas charged with assault.” Harry prudently captures Hermione’s angry hands within his before he finishes speaking, clearly concerned she is about to start performing some kind of remote curse on the Flint lineage.

“Macdolas doesn’t mean to hurt the Flint – Macdolas acts to stop him harming Her Grace Lady Granger! He has Her Grace by her lovely hair and pulls it!” the elf turns a rare shade of purple as his disgruntlement intensifies.

Draco joins the fray, his large knife clattering as he flings it down onto the chopping board in disgust. “Potter, I will defend Macdolas’s actions until the day I die, and spend my last Galleon keeping him from any kind of punishment for his entirely defensible, unquestionably heroic actions – how fucking dare they?!?” he clips out the words with glacial fury.

“And I will legally pursue every last one of the fools until they haven’t a pot in which to piss!” Hermione snarls. “And then I’ll Transfigure them all into guinea pigs and sell them to a children’s petting zoo!” she wildly vows; it is the first thing that pops into her head. _Perhaps isn’t as dire a fate as I’d imagined, given the males’ non-plussed reactions to my plans for vengeance._

“Calm down, everyone: I give you my word – my _official_ word – that Macdolas will not face any disciplinary action or investigation with regard to his stellar defence of Hermione, OK? I just wanted to make you aware of the current climate; I’m in no way presenting it as the Ministry’s opinion or intent.” Harry’s clarification lessens their collective tension somewhat.

“I do have to go over your statements again, Macdolas and Hermione. I want there to be no cause to doubt that we have the correct perpetrator in custody. Please, don’t be alarmed or anxious,” Harry soothes.

“Alright, Harry,” Hermione reins in her aggravation. “What do you need to know?”.

Releasing Hermione’s hands, Harry pulls out a miniature recording device, about half the size of a television remote. Macdolas leans forward curiously as Hermione silently cocks a querying eyebrow.

“It’s a Muggle digital voice recorder that I’ve adapted a little,” Harry waves his hand dismissively. “Just enough to enable it withstand the electro-magnetic effects of magic. I vowed never to resort to using anything similar to Rita Skeeter’s rotten Quick-Quotes Quill, so this seemed an acceptable compromise.”

“Please don’t show it to Arthur – you’d never see it again,” Hermione tries to lighten the charged atmosphere. “I think he’s still trying to get my busted Discman to work, much to Molly’s chagrin.”

Harry laughs, “Yeah – I gave him an old Motorola flip phone and he flipped it until the hinges broke!”. The pair chuckle fondly at the thought of Arthur Weasley’s mild-to-middling obsession with Muggle technology, and his renowned inability to understand or apply it properly.

Harry flicks the power button and the small screen of the voice recorder lights up. “This is Auror Harry Potter, badge number 1527, recording a formal interview with Ms Hermione Granger and Elf Macdolas. The date is Thursday 13 March 2003, and the time is 9.17am. Can you both please state your names, for the record?” he nods to Hermione and Macdolas.

They comply; Macdolas comically flattens his head onto the table to speak directly into the recorder, until Harry assures him it can pick up his voice from a normal seating position.

“Hermione, can you please relate your recollection of the events that led to your hospitalization at St Mungo’s on the evening of 11 March 2003, commencing with your departure from Courtroom Number Six at the Ministry of Magic?”.

She launches into a detailed retelling of her assault, striving to keep her account as factual and emotionless as possible. From the corner of her eye, she sees Draco’s hands tensing into fists as she speaks of tumbling down the stairwell after the push from behind.

Harry interjects, “Did you see or recognize your attacker at any point?”

“I didn’t see him, but I heard him – I heard Marcus Flint say to me: ‘Where’s that legendary fire gone, Golden Girl? No one’s going to save you here, Hermione – you’re ours now, baby girl.’”

“You’re positive it was Marcus Flint’s voice that you heard?” Harry presses.

“Yes. I’d just been in a meeting with him; I have no doubt that Marcus Flint spoke those words.”

Harry pats her hand. “Thank you, Hermione. Now, Mr Macdolas– “

“Macdolas is not a mister, Revered Master Harry James Potter,” the steward corrects. “Macdolas is a free elf without title.”

Draco’s voice booms from across the kitchen. “You’re a Malfoy, Macdolas – you’re family.”

“And a Granger,” Hermione appends, as her eyes match the little mannikin’s for moistness.

Macdolas produces a giant white handkerchief from the brown felt pouch slung crosswise across his torso and blots his overflowing green eyes as he chokes, “Master and Her Grace Lady confer much honour upon their humble servant Macdolas, though he cannot choose between the noble Houses of Granger and Malfoy… “ His tears dry up as he slyly continues, “He wonders when a hyphen comes between them?”.

Harry rolls his eyes as Hermione and Draco synchronously redden and stare intently at anything but each other upon hearing Macdolas’s crafty suggestion.

“Back to the matter at hand, please. Macdolas, please describe your actions on the evening in question, beginning with your arrival at the stairwell.”

Macdolas worries at his hankie. “Her Grace Lady Granger summons Macdolas from townhouse kitchen, he almost begins the preparation of the evening meal, he plans pan-fried spring salmon with minty greens and new potatoes – “

“Very good, Macdolas: but for the sake of expediency, it would be best to stick to the facts relating to Hermione’s ordeal,” Harry gently redirects the narrative.

“Macdolas Apparates to Her Grace Lady Granger’s location and sees Marcus Flint bending over Her Grace Lady Granger; unconscious she is – Marcus Flint pulls her lovely hair, he says bad words before Macdolas Stuns him into the wall and he flops onto the floor– “

“What did Flint say, Macdolas? It’s fine to repeat it verbatim; we need to know, please,” Harry urges.

His light green eyes narrow as Macdolas growls, “The Flint is saying, ‘Gotcha now, bitch.’ He sees Macdolas, he yells, ‘What the fuck!’... then Macdolas Stuns him, he hits the wall and says nothing.”

Harry quashes a smile. “Right. And what happened next?”

“Master Nott and Master Zabini run around the corner; they help Macdolas but cannot rouse Her Grace Lady Granger. Master Zabini stays behind to guard the Flint and tell the Ministry of Magic people; Master Nott accompanies us to St Mungo’s Hospital. Macdolas hears Master Malfoy calling for him but will not leave Her Grace’s side, he stays by bedside and waits for Her Grace Lady Granger to wake...” The handkerchief is being tied in knots as Macdolas relives his anxiety.

“Thank you, Macdolas. I have one last question: how did you identify Marcus Flint?” Harry queries.

Macdolas fidgets as he slowly explains, “Macdolas likes to read through Master Malfoy’s Hogwarts year books, and he sees Marcus Flint is captain of Master Malfoy’s Quidditch team... Lady Malfoy tells Macdolas he may, he does not take them from library! He looks at them on his breaks, he wishes to visit Hogwarts Castle one day.”

Draco cuts in. “Consider it done, Macdolas. We will take you there whenever you like, depending on Headmistress McGonagall granting her permission.”

The major-domo's nubby ears twitch in pure delight. “Macdolas thanks Master Malfoy and must decide which outfit he chooses for the glorious occasion!”

Turning off the voice recorder, Harry briefly pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his spectacles. “Thank you – I'm sorry to have to make you repeat yourselves, but your recounts will go far in suppressing Flint’s family’s outcry. I’d best get back to the office to file my reports.”

“Potter – do you have any clue as to who Flint was working with?” Draco petitions, as the enticing smell of cheesy eggs wafts from the cooktop.

“Not yet,” Harry hedges. “Try not to stress about it – we’re cross-referencing and doubling-back and doing everything possible to ensure we get these grubs… _all_ of them. Hermione, love – will you promise me that you won’t go anywhere alone? And that you’ll contact me immediately, if anything happens, or if something comes back to you? Please?” He looks tired, tense, and troubled.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I must apologize to all of you, for not being more careful, at work. I honestly didn’t think – well, I didn’t think. I never wanted to worry you – “ Hermione chokes, unable to finish her sentence due to the wave of regret and pain that washes over her as she remembers the terrifying feelings of helplessness and dread as she lay on the cold stone floor of the stairwell, losing consciousness. She closes her eyes as hot tears drip down her cheeks.

Only a few seconds elapse before Hermione feels Draco’s gentle arms wrapping around her from beside her chair, pressing her head to his chest as he croons, “It’s OK, Granger… no one blames you, _ma pauvre_ _petite lionne blessée_. You do not need to apologize to anyone.” He rubs her back in slow circles as she opens her blurry mocha eyes and lifts her head to smile tremulously at him.

“That’s better – there’s my plucky witch,” Draco tenderly kisses away her tears. “Now – how about some of my world-famous omelette? You’re not yourself when you’re hungry.” He doesn’t wait for her nod to stride back to the stovetop and plate up her breakfast.

“Wish I’d brought a camera: I need to immortalize the incredible sight of Lord Draco Malfoy cooking the Muggle way,” Harry razzes, as Draco brings over Hermione’s meal, cutlery, and a steaming mug of fresh coffee. He kisses the crown of her chestnut head as she gratefully smiles her thanks.

“Piss off, Potter,” Draco retorts, without any true resentment. “Do you want a coffee?”

“No, thanks – I’ll get going, before you pair start canoodling again and put me off ever embarking upon another romantic relationship.” Harry rises and tucks in his chair, before patting Macdolas’s thin shoulder and lightly squeezing Hermione’s upper arm. “Don’t get up, Malfoy can see me out. Take care, love.”

“Bye, Harry. Don’t work too hard – you look like you’re not getting enough sleep.” _And that’s probably all my fault_ , Hermione frets.

“I’ll survive,” Harry grins. “See you soon.” He and Draco walk from the room; Hermione hears a low hum of male conversation before the Floo swooshes and her tall beau returns to gracefully slide into the seat beside her.

“What did you and Harry discuss?” she probes, not liking the small frown lines etched into Draco’s brow.

“Nothing of import… How’s your meal?” Draco pinches a mushroom slice and pops it into his mouth with a wink.

“Delicious. Thank you. But I know you’re stealing food in a blatant attempt to distract me, Mr Sneak Thief.” Hermione points her knife in an accusatory gesture, as Draco shrugs.

“I do have something I need to tell you, Granger. I’ve made an appointment for you to see a Muggle therapist this afternoon. It’s entirely your decision as to whether you wish to attend, of course; I thought perhaps a Muggle counsellor might be more knowledgeable about the particulars of the attempted roofie element,” Draco elucidates. He appears nervous as to her reaction as he adds, “Macdolas and I shall accompany you, of course – well, not to the session proper– “

“OK, Malfoy. That’s a good idea.” Hermione can’t decide whether she should be diverted or insulted by the relieved surprise on Draco’s comely visage as she readily assents to his suggestion.

“Good. Excellent. Oh, and Luna will be here by ten o’clock; I sent her and Hagrid a quick owl yesterday, to let them know you were on the mend, and recuperating at home with us. I’m sorry – I meant to mention it yesterday afternoon, but we were… otherwise occupied,” Draco smirks as his slate grey eyes hold hers meaningfully.

Hermione pins her lips together as she fights off the red stain from deepening her olive skin. _Not in front of Macdolas!_

“He deserves payback, after what I stumbled upon in the hallway yesterday,” Draco seems to read her mind as the sheepish house elf hangs his pink-flushed head and hurries to scuttle from the table. “Do stick around, Macdolas – didn’t you want to know about condoms? Now would be the perfect time for that little chat… No?” he laughs unreservedly as Macdolas vaguely chitters something about ‘polishing’ and ‘laundry’ before fleeing from the room.

“You shouldn’t tease Mac so – he was as red as his Mountie jacket!” Hermione scolds, unable to stop her own giggles escaping. She lays down her cutlery to grip his ivory hand. “I really appreciate you contacting Luna and Hagrid – I wish I’d thought of it myself… they must have been concerned, if they’d read that lousy Daily Prophet article, or heard the inevitable gossip. You’re thoughtful and kind, and I – I thank you for it.”

Draco’s shoulders hunch a little at her praise. “It was nothing. And Macdolas deserves some moderate ribbing, considering his previous attempts to cock-block us, _ma petite_.” He straightens as he bosses, “Now, finish your breakfast, or I shan’t be well pleased.”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy,” Hermione deliberately looks up from beneath her eyelashes, gratified to note his pupils dilating at her pretend-meek tone. “Ohhh… you liked that, didn’t you? Want to play “Lord of the Manor Ravishes Bookish Governess’, tonight?” she takes it a little further.

“Is that a novel? Will you read it to me, whilst my hands slide up your silk stockings and I thoroughly compromise you on the fainting couch?” Draco rasps. “Salazar’s spirit, woman – you’re too sexy to be real, do you realize that?”.

“That’s rich, coming from you, Malfoy,” Hermione derides the notion. “I’m sure you’re well aware of how many of our female peers at Hogwarts wanted to find out for themselves whether your legendary sexual reputation was accurate.”

She regrets her impulsive comment as Draco looks away. “I’m not proud of how I behaved, but I wasn’t… I wasn’t as promiscuous, nor as disrespectful to women, as the rumours made out,” he hesitantly explicates, leaning away from her as his brow creases.

“I’m sorry – I wasn’t judging you,” Hermione hastens to rectify her blundering mouth. “Please don’t think that, Draco. If anything… I was envious,” she ruefully admits. “Both of the girls who were your conquests, and of the chance to explore one’s teenage sexuality. No one ever looked at me twice, until Viktor asked me to the Yule Ball. And then, it was simply to jeer at me for ‘glamouring’ myself and thinking I could be pretty.”

Her old insecurities flare up as she remembers the derogatory comments that some of her classmates had made sure she’d overheard. “I was ‘putting on airs and graces’; and some of the Slytherins were loudly convinced I’d slipped Viktor a love potion.”

“They regretted it as soon as they returned to the Snakes’ dorms, trust me,” Draco snarls. “And as for the other arseholes who dared to disparage you – they were mean, petty, jealous little turds. You have always been beautiful, Hermione. I’m sorry you have ever doubted it for a second.”

 _Oh, goddess – Draco’s going to make me cry. Again._ Hermione throws herself into his arms and kisses him as though there’s no tomorrow, tears leaking from her closed eyes as she plies him with her gladdened gratitude and raw affection. His easy strength and agile reflexes are brought into play as he shifts to hold her securely on his lap.

“Please don’t cry, my sweet witch – I abhor that my past actions have made you have shed far too many tears already,” Draco begs. “I am forever thankful that your precious, strong heart was able to forgive my cruelties and give me another (undeserved) chance.”

Heart flopping in her throat, Hermione opens her mouth to inform Draco precisely how she feels about him – but the Floo fireplace sounds again and her tentative words subside.

“That will be Luna,” Draco observes. “She’s a tad early; she probably wants to reassure herself that you’re truly unharmed, and well.”

Nodding, Hermione wiggles off his legs and stands up, keeping their hands entwined.

_Maybe it’s for the best… I’m yet afraid of rushing things, reckless Gryffindor that I am, she meditates._

_Just a little more time… and a little more courage._

_Right._

* * *

“She’s expecting us, Hermione – and Draco has given his full blessing,” Luna calmly eases Hermione’s dragging misgivings about their shopping jaunt. “It’s only one stop, and we’re using the private Floo in her office. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, well, as long as _Draco_ has decreed it acceptable – let us sally forth with righteousness,” Hermione sarcastically replies. “I’d hate to defy my lord and master, after all.”

She should have known better than to employ sarcasm with Luna, who merely nods approvingly.

“I think it’s lovely how quickly you’ve negotiated and settled into your dominant/submissive relationship roles, Hermione, especially considering how you both like to retain control. Good for you,” Luna bestows her ethereal smile upon her flummoxed friend.

“No, that’s not what I meant, Luna… never mind,” Hermione sighs. For all of Luna’s dreaminess, arguing with her is usually pointless; her Ravenclaw friend is almost impossible to disconcert, or to best in a laterally logical argument. She grabs a pinch of green powder. “I’m ready.”

Luna travels first, pronouncing their destination in her clear, high voice before vanishing into the Floo flames. Hermione closes her eyes, tucks in her elbows and duplicates the words for the swift yet disorienting journey via magical chimney. When she opens them again, Luna is leading her into a sleekly elegant London office. Two racks of stunningly sophisticated ballgowns are neatly arranged in the middle of the room.

The owner of the office steps out briskly from behind the exquisite dresses. “Good morning, Luna. Hello, Hermione. Bet you never thought you’d be darkening the doors of a high-end boutique owned by yours truly, did you?” A small smile plays around the impeccably put-together woman’s mouth as she holds out her slim hand to shake.

“Hi, Pansy.” Hermione duly shakes, at a loss as how best to respond to the other witch’s matter-of-fact, slyly humorous attitude. _I must have been barking mad to let Luna talk me into this… Pansy Parkinson is Draco’s ex-girlfriend! It’s not too late to jump back into the Floo_. She rapidly calculates whether her Lion pride could withstand the craven act.

Pansy’s laugh is surprisingly cheerful and good-natured as she calls out Hermione’s dalliance with cowardice. “Relax, Hermione – I’m still a bitch, but Luna can vouch for my bitchery now being channelled into more productive and appropriate endeavours, such as this salon. I’ll only say this once, but I say it sincerely: I apologize for being a spiteful cow to you at school. I’m happy to move past it and help you pick out a gorgeous frock for the Gala. Are you in?”.

_Screw it. I trust that Luna wouldn’t have brought me here unless she was wholly confident Pansy means me no ill. And I’m running out of time before the Spring Equinox ball… and those gowns do look absolutely fantastic._

“I accept your apology; I’m sorry I was prejudiced toward you, Pansy.” Hermione holds out her hand again. “Shall we aim for proprietor/client interactions with a view to becoming civil acquaintances?” she proposes.

“Done.” Pansy’s grip is firm and her smile toothy as she accepts the olive branch. “By the way, I was grieved to hear you were attacked; I trust you’re doing OK?”

“I am, thank you.” Hermione wonders uneasily whether she should mention Draco… _Ugh, maybe not. But surely Pansy is across that hot gossip item already?_

Her musings are quelled as Pansy bluntly proclaims, “You really need to learn to mask your emotions better, Hermione – I can practically see your concerns flashing in your eyes. I finally moved on from my infatuation with Draco the exact moment he blurted your name instead of mine during a heated interlude… ah, he didn’t tell you that yet, huh?” she reacts to Hermione’s shocked blink.

“He’s all yours, darling.” Pansy’s perfectly painted pink lips part as though she is about to say something else, before she purses them shut again and busies herself rifling through the first rack. Luna sits down on the plush two-seater dark grey divan beside them, waving at Hermione to do the same.

Pansy turns to critically assess Hermione’s figure. “What do you consider your best asset?” she demands.

“Oh… um… my intelligence?” Hermione frowns as the other two witches chuckle at her bemused response.

“Don’t get riled – I mean, what do you like most about your body? Breasts, arse, legs? Shoulders? Waist? Feet? Come on, you must have some preference,” Pansy taps her stilettoed foot impatiently.

“I don’t know – my eyes?”. Hermione glares resentfully as Pansy dramatically rolls her eyes. “Look, you’re the fashion expert, aren’t you? Pick out something and I’ll tell you if I like it or not.”

“Fine – but I want you to promise you’ll wear it with confidence. Put your self-esteem issues firmly to one side and think about knocking off Draco’s silk socks, OK? Imagine his jaw dropping when he sees you in the perfect dress,” Pansy commands.

As Hermione continues to project dubiousness, the sable-haired ex-Slytherin adds, “You love those new robes Draco gifted you, don’t you? Who do you think ordered them in, and made sure they met his every persnickety specification?”. Pansy nods in satisfaction at Hermione’s dawning realization.

“I knew the blond fool was a smitten kitten long before you did – so put some faith in my expertise and enjoy the ride.”

“Now, how comfortable are you with showing just a hint of areolae? Or the top of your bum?”

_Oh, hell no…_

* * *

_How is it possible to feel this fatigued by a sixty minute shopping excursion? Particularly considering I spent most of it simply stating a firm ‘no’ to a series of increasingly risqué outfits?_ Hermione ponders, yawning hugely as she follows Luna in stepping back into the townhouse’s lounge room. Draco rushes in before she has taken more than two paces, hugging her as though she’s been overseas for six months.

“How did it go? Was Pansy nice to you? Did you find a gown you liked? I can easily ask Mother to help, she loves haute couture and knows plenty of Parisian designers,” Draco babbles, as Hermione revels in the joy of being enfolded in his tight embrace.

“Settle down, Malfoy – you’re starting to emulate me: all questions and no pauses,” Hermione teases. “Pansy was fine, we found the perfect dress, and she is going to send it to me once the final alterations are complete.” She lightly tweaks his right ear lobe as she chastens, “You could have warned me that you are friends, you know – Pansy let slip that she helped you with my sublime new robes.”

Draco ducks his head, adopting a discomfited mien. “I thought it might be rather awkward to reveal we have remained on good terms; she’s not the wicked harridan many believed her to be, Granger. Pansy’s had her own trauma to surmount – but it’s not my tale to tell.”

Luna chips in, “Pansy fought a bitter legal battle to access her inheritance, after her Pureblood parents disowned her, Hermione. She used those monies to start her first boutique, and she’s since diversified into financially backing and guiding other witches’ small businesses. We met again when she came to Father to buy advertising space in The Quibbler, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Hermione feels disappointed in herself. _I’ve been guilty of clinging onto the same historic bias and ill-feeling that I so despised in many of my old peers,_ she reflects dejectedly.

Her sorrowful rumination is interrupted by the odd sound of… muted explosions? She tilts her head as the arrhythmic thuds escalate.

“Draco, are you hosting an Exploding Snap Card Tournament?” Luna serenely enquires at the same time that Hermione demands, “What’s going on back there, Malfoy? And why do you look guilty, all of a sudden?”

“It’s nothing, ladies – Macdolas is practising his defensive abilities,” Draco temporizes. “Would you care for a refreshing drink before lunch?”. He winces involuntarily as the loudest _whump_ thus far thuds from somewhere in the vicinity of the ground floor laundry. 

Hermione makes to rush in that direction; Draco stymies her intent as he coils his arms around her hips again.

“Let me go – I can tell you’re hiding something, and I don’t care for it.” Hermione’s hackles are up and itching.

“We’re handling it, Granger – please, I don’t want to upset you,” Draco’s effort to appease her ire fails woefully short.

“Too late – I’m _upset_ that you believe I need to be sheltered like some frangible, mollycoddled infant,” she seethes. “Now, please – will you tell me the truth?”.

“I’m sorry,” Draco loosens his hold, sadness colouring his tone. “Macdolas is indeed practising his defensive skills – on the Howlers we’ve both received, since yesterday’s Daily Prophet article,” he sighs. “Fortunately, our little manservant is marvellously adept at blasting them to smithereens before they can scream their vile sentiments about our ‘despicable and depraved’ relationship.”

“I apologize for my misguided attempts to shield you from this added unpleasantness… I wished to spare you some of the fallout that my infamy and past crimes have already wreaked upon your sterling reputation.” Draco’s face is a cool mask as he breaks all physical contact with Hermione, retreating to grip the back of the nearest retro Danish armchair.

Hermione’s heart stutters at the distressing information, and Draco’s aloof disposition. _I hadn’t even considered the likelihood of hate mail… and poor Draco, condemning himself for the petty-minded viciousness of a few witless bigots._

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this, Malfoy – this is _not_ your fault. And while I appreciate you were trying to protect me, please believe me when I say that we’re a team now… and that means sharing our troubles, as well as our triumphs. And I meant it when I said that I don’t give a rat’s arse what anyone else thinks of us – and that’s much more powerful than ‘not giving a fig’,” Hermione alludes to her impassioned speech beside her desk at the Ministry on Monday morning.

Her feeble joke doesn’t raise even the ghost of a smile on Draco’s drawn features. “I’d best see if Macdolas needs some assistance; I’ll send him in to start our luncheon. Excuse me,” he utters in a bland monotone as he strides swiftly from the living room, spine stiff and movements jerky.

Luna lays a soft hand on her Hermione’s arm as she begins to dash after her unhappy lover. “Let him be for a little while – he might need some space,” she calmly advises, pity enlarging her baby blue eyes. “Has Draco shared everything with you yet, Hermione?”.

“Everything?” Hermione repeats dumbly, apprehension thrumming through her veins. “What do you mean by that, Luna?”

“Draco needs to tell you that himself, when he’s ready,” Luna stipulates. “I’m sorry – I’m afraid I’ve already overstepped.”

The petite Magizoologist links her slender arm with Hermione’s as she urges, “Come along, Hermione. You can catch me up on what’s really been happening, as opposed to the rank untruths The Daily Prophet is spreading. And try not to worry; Draco adores you. He’ll speak his secrets when the time is right.”

“I hope so, Luna... but what if the right time never comes?”

The dismal thought burrows deep, despite Luna’s assertions to the contrary. Hermione smiles wanly as she trudges into the kitchen, her psyche occupied by a looping, silent plea.

_Please, Draco… I’m here for you. Come hell, or high water. Please… let me in._

* * *

**French translation:**

_ma pauvre_ _petite lionne blessée_ – my poor little wounded lioness.


	38. Amity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Emily: thank you so much for your unflagging, enthusiastic, and generous support of this story.  
> The fact that you still like it well enough to keep promoting it just blows me away.  
> Your committed readership and kind praise is a wonderful gift that I truly treasure.  
> And I'm extremely keen to investigate your comprehensive list of Dramione favourites, as soon as I have a little more reading time - it looks amazing!  
> Thank you. I really appreciate you, Emily.  
> 💗⭐💗⭐💗

__

_Thursday 13 March 2003: PM_

_I have to tell her. I have to tell Hermione before she finds out from someone else._ _The skeletons are rattling, and they never stay buried. Someone always talks, no matter how many Galleons you throw at a scandal._

Draco tosses down the charcoal stick he’s been aimlessly twirling, disgusted by his cowardliness. _I could live with the lie by omission in the beginning, when I thought our liaison had a use-by date… but now? How will Hermione look at me, when she knows the depths of my weakness and toxicity? Will her fierce loyalty and pity cloak her disgust? Or will she walk away without a second thought, glad to have escaped the taint of the corrupt Malfoys before she got in too deep?_

He can’t decide which is worse. He doesn’t allow himself the luxury of believing in a fairy tale future. He is no prince; just a desperate man clinging to a short-lived dream.

Those wretched Howlers underline his every misgiving. He cannot – he _will_ _not_ – allow Hermione to suffer the relentless disapprobation that is part and parcel of aligning oneself with the most hated family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He thinks of the ostracism his mother has endured for the last five years, with no end in sight to her social shunning. Narcissa is starving for social intercourse, and as for Lucius…

Sinking onto the tall stool situated in front of his latest canvas, Draco realizes it will serve him exactly right if he ends up like his disreputable father: a skinny old wraith, cloaked in bitterness, despair, and the crushing weight of his self-inflicted failures.

_And yet, Mother loves him… she chooses to stay, when any other witch would have left…_

_Maybe Hermione will still want me? Even after she knows the whole truth?_ Draco scratches at his flaxen locks as he struggles to get a handle on his flip-flopping emotions and fears. _I have to tell her. I’ve promised, and she’s right – I need to learn to share my problems._

The memory of her sweet, worried face when he’d returned from destroying the last of the Howlers in the laundry pops into his mind. Luna must have recommended that Hermione not immediately pursue his abrupt withdrawal, after their brief argument; it was unlike his gutsy little Gryffindor to let a subject drop. He’d managed to avoid a continuance of the topic, sitting quietly throughout a luncheon of Caesar salad with a side of awkwardness. Luna and Macdolas had carried the majority of the conversation, as he and Hermione had taken turns in sneaking anxious peeks at one another before quickly glancing away.

Accompanying Hemione to the Muggle therapist’s appointment had not lessened the emotional tension between them, though he’d been unable to stop himself touching her at every opportunity. Draco had spent most of the hour-long wait in the reception area remembering (and treasuring anew) every single moment they’d had together since he found her on his doorstep, before he’d recalled passing a small florist’s shop on their short walk here from the townhouse.

He’d returned just in time, barrelling through the front door as his teary-eyed girlfriend had emerged from the therapist’s office, stuffing a combination of used and fresh tissues into the pockets of her long, red and blue paisley dress.

Draco had hastily hidden his purchase (as best he could) behind his back as he’d tentatively smiled down at Hermione. “Everything go alright, Granger?”. He’d been relieved when she’d offered him a small, composed smile of her own.

“Yes, Dr McCarthy – Rica – was really helpful. She’s scheduled my next appointment for Monday evening; I should be back at work by then,” Hermione had informed him, as she’d reached for his hand.

He’d let that assertion slide, as he’d quickly juggled hands and laced his fingers through hers. “Excellent. Are you ready to return home, or would you like a few minutes?” Draco had keenly scrutinized her expressive chocolate eyes as she’d dabbed away the last vestiges of tears with a clean tissue.

“I’m fine, just a little tired. I think I’ll have a nap… you won’t have to badger me into it, today. Although I wouldn’t mind being carried upstairs again,” she’d shyly hinted, as Draco had somehow managed to push open the door with his elbow and foot and follow her outside. “I rather liked being swept off my feet; you made me feel like a princess – but don’t tell anyone I said that, please,” Hermione had softly chuckled.

“You are a queen, _ma petite_. Or rather, a Prime Minister – for you have earned every single one of your many accomplishments, not merely been born into privilege,” Draco had emphatically avowed, easing them to a gentle stop on a currently unoccupied patch of pavement.

“Here – I got – I chose these. For you,” he’d oh-so-smoothly stammered, thrusting the vibrant bunch of long-stemmed sunflowers beneath Hermione’s surprised nose. “Sunflowers represent loyalty, longevity, and… and adoration.”

Draco had swallowed hard before he’d continued, “Granger, I’m sorry I shut down on you, about the Howlers. I’m used to keeping things – problems – to myself, and I need to work on that. And I know I’m too overprotective of you, I’m sorry – I just can’t bear to see you hurt, Hermione. I want… I want to share my troubles with you, I do… and I will. Can you forgive me, please? And… grant me just a little more time?”.

He’d sucked in a deep gulp of oxygen after jabbering out his apologetic monologue, buoyed by Hermione’s immediate energetic nodding as she’d fiercely clasped the cheery yellow and black flowers to her chest. She’d narrowly avoided crushing the bouquet as she’d stepped closer and lightly slapped at his pectorals.

“Of course I forgive you, my darling dolt – but please, I don’t need you to shelter me from the unpleasantness of life. I always want your support, but I need to know that you respect me enough to share your burdens. _Our_ burdens, now,” she’d emphasized, eyes moistening as she’d gazed up tenderly into his ameliorated face.

Hermione had grinned as she’d declared, “Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, Draco – but I _knew_ you were savvy about floriography! ‘A mite cheesy, don’t you think?’” she’d scoffed, repeating his prevarication about the first bunch of roses he’d sent to her office.

Compelled to defend his honour, Draco had chuckled as he’d protested, “Hey – I didn’t lie – I merely expressed an opinion, if it pleases the prosecution.” He’d ignored the gawking of passing pedestrians as he’d succumbed to his overwhelming urge to plunge his hands into her soft, thick hair and plunder her rosy lips, imparting every ounce of his inexpressible emotions into his deep, passionate kiss.

One or two of the bright sunflowers had been unfortunately battered by their enthusiastic embrace, as Hermione had eagerly kissed him back with her own sensual fervour. They’d stayed ardently lip-locked and blocking the footpath until a passing older gentleman had sourly commented, “Clear the way and get a room, you randy young’uns!”.

They’d broken apart and moved to the side, giggling as the same grouchy retiree had whacked his sturdy cane against the ground for added effect, glowering harder at the young lovers as Hermione had blown him a saucy kiss while Draco uttered a perfunctory apology.

The Hater of Young Love had gotten in the last word, muttering, “Shameless – just shameless!” as their chuckles had developed into full-blown belly laughs, before Draco had looped his arm around Hermione’s curvy waist and dropped a soft peck on the tip of her nose.

“Come on, Granger – our comfortable bed awaits.”

Upon their return to the townhouse, Draco had gladly carried Hermione upstairs, placed her gently onto their bed, and set about changing her pretty dress for her preferred sleep attire, i.e. one of his fine cotton white t-shirts. He’d lain down himself and snuggled her until she’d fallen asleep, only slipping upstairs to his studio when he’d worried that his restlessness was hampering her need for restorative slumber.

His reverie is now interrupted by a brisk knock at the door. Bidding entry, Draco nods as his animated little house elf slips through the portal. “What’s up, Macdolas?”.

The chamberlain excitedly announces, “A visitor comes for Her Grace Lady Granger, Master Malfoy! The Professional and Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson arrives by Floo and brings Her Grace the ‘ballgown of her dreams’; Macdolas asks Mistress Pansy to wait downstairs while he seeks Master Malfoy’s permission to wake Her Grace from her afternoon nap.”

“I’ll come down and speak with Pansy; thank you, Macdolas. Please tell her I’ll be with her in a moment.”

Macdolas nods and snaps his fingers, Disapparating to complete his task, as Draco shuts the studio door behind him and takes the stairs. He is halfway down the last staircase when Hermione walks onto the landing above him. “Malfoy, is someone here? I thought I heard voices,” she yawns, still wearing his t-shirt as her delectable bare legs move her closer to the balustrade.

“It’s just Pansy – Macdolas said she’s brought your dress for the Gala. Go back to bed, Granger. I’m sorry we woke you.” Draco isn’t surprised when Hermione mutinously shakes her head.

“I’ve rested long enough. I want to see my dress – will you ask Pansy to bring it upstairs, please? She probably needs to check the final alterations are correct,” Hermione requests, smiling at his exasperated reaction. “And no sneaking a look – Pansy said it’s not allowed, you have to experience ‘the full effect’ on the night of the ball,” she warns.

 _I may not have thoroughly considered the ramifications of Pansy, Luna and Hermione joining forces to gang up on me,_ Draco uneasily decides. _Crap_.

“Very well,” he sighs, capitulating to Hermione’s demands. “As ever – I am putty in your pretty hands.”

Hermione leans over the wooden railing to blow him a derisive raspberry. “Pfffffttt! You’re a smooth operator, aren’t you?” she teases. “Remember – no snooping!” she winks, before retreating to their bedroom.

His contented smile is still plastered across his face as Draco walks into the lounge room. “Hi, Pansy,” he hugs her briefly as the brunette witch air-kisses both his cheeks; she does hate to mess up her pristine lipstick.

“Well, I see married life agrees with you, you disgustingly happy git,” Pansy gibes, smirking gleefully as Draco blushes hotly.

“You know full well we’re not married, Pansy!” he hisses, sotto voice. _Inviting Pansy into Hermione’s social circle truly was not your best idea_ , his inner critic chirps.

“Pah. You may as well be; and I suspect you’ve been embroidering fancy daydreams about co-existing in connubial bliss with a certain little Gryffindor since you first clapped eyes on her frizzy head – spare me the outraged denials, we both know you’re full of shit,” Pansy rips in, her striking jasper-green eyes glinting with amusement as Draco’s blush stings his cheeks and neck.

“Hermione asked if you’d mind taking the dress upstairs to our bedroom for the fitting, please,” Draco frantically changes the subject.

“’Our bedroom’ – well, you’d better make sure I get the wedding dress commission,” Pansy shows no mercy. “Lead the way, Romeo.” Her high heels clack imperiously on the wooden floors as he leads her to the stairs, taking the zipped-up opaque garment bag from her arm before they start to ascend the stairway.

“Pansy – will you promise me you won’t tell tales out of school, to Hermione? Please?” Draco fails to stop desperation tingeing his request.

“Nice choice of idiom, Draco. Look, I won’t swap sexcapades, if that’s what’s worrying you – but if Hermione asks me a direct question, I won’t lie to her, either.”

Pansy relents a little as they reach the landing. “Relax – I highly doubt that Hermione will probe for any details about our lacklustre ‘relationship’, and she’s never been one to compare notes on dick sizes or preferred positions. So wipe that frightened look off your face, you drip.”

“Dick sizes? What, do you mean the Weasel? Does he have a monster cock – is that what you’re saying?” Draco growls at the unwelcome thought.

Something wicked flashes in Pansy’s eyes as she shrugs. “Like I said, Hermione doesn’t shag and tell. Let it go, Draco. From the look of both of you, you’ve been going at it like bunnies, so I take it as a given she has no complaints.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Draco feebly objects as he knocks on the bedroom door. “Granger? May I send in Pansy?”. He hands the covered dress bag back to the businesswoman as Hermione opens the door.

“Hi, Pansy; go away, Malfoy. This is secret women’s business,” she shoos him away with a mischievous grin.

“Still calling each other by your last names? Soooo cute,” Pansy pretends to dry-retch.

Draco ignores her as he quickly kisses Hermione before the door closes. “ _Ma petite_ , don’t believe anything Pansy tells you about me, OK?”.

The door slams as Pansy cackles.

* * *

_Perhaps shutting my eyes while Pansy Parkinson is standing behind me – armed with tiny sharp pins – isn’t such a good idea_. Hermione surreptitiously crosses her fingers as Pansy barks out another directive.

“Breathe out – you’ll have a terrible time of it if you’re fainting non-stop because your dress is too tight,” Pansy berates, skilfully tugging the fabric around her hips into place as Hermione obeys.

“Can I look in the mirror yet?” Hermione whines, desperate to see if the luxurious ballgown looks as stunning ‘on’ as she remembers. Her eyes remain squeezed closed as she awaits permission from the strict Slytherin fashionmonger.

“No – in fact – “ Pansy slides her wand from a cunningly-disguised hip pocket, points it at the looking glass and chants, “ _Obscuro_ ”. “You can open your eyes now; remind me to reverse that before I leave.”

A disgruntled Hermione bleats, “You blindfolded the mirror? That’s mean, Pansy.” She folds her arms crossly.

Straightening as she pockets the tailor’s pins she’s removed, Pansy impatiently sweeps her long straight fall of dark brown hair back behind her shoulder. “Would you rather I’d blindfolded _you_? Salazar, imagine the outcry! No, I’ll leave that to Draco,” she winks, as Hermione flushes pink and bites her lip.

“How do I look?” Hermione asks nervously, choosing to ignore Pansy’s little jest. She moves to smooth her hands against her hips, but the other witch knocks away her digits with ease.

“No touching! Grubby Gryffindors, no respect for high-end fashion.” Pansy steps back and runs her critical velvet green eyes over Hermione’s jittery form. “Turn around… right. Just as I thought.”

“What? Does it look terrible? Oh, I told you that I wasn’t sure – but you insisted– “

“Hermione Granger – you look utterly divine. No, Divine with a capital ‘D’,” Pansy nods, thoroughly pleased with herself. “Draco is going to need a heart-starter potion once he gloms his hungry eyes onto you while you’re wearing this. Fuck, I’m good,” she congratulates herself. She moves forward again, her agile fingers quickly undoing the hooks and hidden side-zip.

“Can I trust you not to try it on again, until the night of the Ball? Luna and I will come over early to help with your dress, hair and make-up. Step out,” Pansy makes short work of carefully rehanging the gown and popping it back into its garment bag, before opening the wardrobe and stowing it in the farthest corner on Hermione’s side.

“Aww, Draco’s already cleared it out for ‘your side’ – moonstruck berk,” Pansy observes. Closing the wardrobe door, she reverses the blindfold spell and the mirror’s reflection clears. Hermione has changed back into the red paisley frock she wore to her therapy appointment, and sets about donning her brown leather ankle boots.

“Pansy… why are you being so nice to me?” Hermione slowly seeks to gain some clarity on this unexpected new amity. “Did Luna or Draco ask it as a favour?”. _I’m surprised at how much that idea upsets me… I wish I’d known how_ cool _Pansy is before now…_

“Mind the sentimentality dead ahead – here comes the deep and meaningful discourse,” Pansy sighs. She motions to the big white bed. “Sit down, and don’t look so edgy, Hermione. I haven’t bitten anyone in years.”

Perching beside her, Pansy swivels her silk-clad hips to better look Hermione in the eye. “Luna and Draco asked me to assist with your ballgown, but I’m being friendly to you because I want to be, OK? I don’t have many female friends – well, I have Luna, and she’s a proper fucking treasure… I don’t have to tell you that,” she remarks, as Hermione vigorously nods.

“I always envied you in school, you know.” Pansy laughs at Hermione’s incredulous reaction. “Yeah, you were revoltingly self-righteous, and you wore your heart on your sleeve like a bloody medal… but you were a scholastic genius, you were unfailingly kind and just; and from what I heard, your parents love you to bits. And then, there was Draco’s poorly-disguised yen for everything Granger.’

“Don’t shake your head in denial – that blond arsehole was forever eye-fucking you and scheming out opportunities to ‘accidentally’ cross your path like a chess Grandmaster. Did you never wonder at how frequently your Prefect patrol just happened to bust us necking in a darkened alcove? Wake up, Pollyanna,” she snickers at Hermione’s dumbfounded face.

“It took me a while to figure it out, but then I stuck to Draco like glue, out of spite. I used to wish someone would look at me like that – luckily for the male population (and my healthy sex life), I’ve moved on and up, many moons ago. It’s not for everyone, but safe and consensual casual sex suits me perfectly. I won’t be anyone’s victim… not again… “. Pansy’s eyes cloud momentarily before she irritably shakes her head.

“Anyway – I respect and commend you, Hermione. You’re strong and gutsy, and you don’t back down from a fight. Besides, I’m committed to fostering positive and productive connections between witches. We need to support fellow women, not compete with them for male attention and privilege. Oh, don’t start up with the waterworks,” she groans as Hermione fumbles a clean(ish) tissue out of her pocket.

“Pansy – can I give you a hug? Please?” Hermione swipes ruthlessly at her damp eyelashes and wraps her arms around the sputtering green-eyed witch.

“Careful of the shantung!” Pansy briefly returns the embrace, before firmly pushing Hermione away and fussing at the heavy textured silk of her long bespoke black dress.

“You look like Holly Golightly from ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Hermione admiringly notes aloud, as a frowning Pansy checks for non-existent creases in the mirror.

“Thanks! Audrey Hepburn’s my true style icon, actually,” Pansy grins in delight. “There’s hope for your piss-poor fashion sense after all, Hermione.”

“Oh, fuck off… “ Hermione collapses back on the bed, laughing like a drain at the shock on the other woman’s face at her casual cussing. It doesn’t take more than a couple of beats before Pansy joins in.

“Hey, can I ask you something personal? It’s not a sex thing,” Pansy drolly qualifies. Hermione cautiously nods her assent.

“How come you and Ginny Weasley aren’t besties anymore? I won’t gossip – but Luna said I should ask you directly. The two of you seemed tight as ticks, at Hogwarts.”

Hermione sits upright again, her laughter dwindling as she pensively wrings her hands. “We _were_ besties… I don’t want to badmouth Ginny, OK? I guess the simplest answer is: Ginny’s jealousy about my close friendship with Harry poisoned her perspective. Plus, my stubborn pride refused to accept her apology, after she hot-headedly accused me of ‘throwing away a perfectly good relationship’ when I broke up with Ron, last year,” she sadly expounds.

“I think Ginny reacted like that because she’d fixated on the idea of the four of us hitting the same milestones, you know? Getting married, having kids, interweaving our families, that sort of thing… and then, when I made it clear Ron and I simply weren’t going to work out, it might have illuminated the cracks in her relationship with Harry.” Hermione shrugs unhappily.

“I miss her – but I don’t want toxicity in my life, Pansy. I’m hopeful that we can someday reconnect and rebuild our friendship – but without all the baggage that weighed it down in the first place.”

“Makes sense. Thanks for sharing, Pollyanna,” Pansy smirks. “Yeah, that’s your nickname now, and it suits you to a tee. Right: I’ve endured enough schmaltziness for one day – let’s go downstairs and twit Draco until he loses his shit, huh? Maybe ask Macdolas to whip us up some snacks?” she holds out her hand to hoist Hermione upright.

“Pansy – are you responsible for Mac’s fantastical attire? His clothes are amazingly ornate; and I’ve yet to see him wear the same outfit twice,” Hermione asks, as she opens the bedroom door.

“Not me, personally – I set him up with a Muggle mail-order business that specializes in tailor-made children’s costumes. They have his measurements, and he sends through his choices every month,” Pansy solves the mystery of Mac’s inexhaustible wacky wardrobe. “But don’t mention the ‘children’s costumes’ thing, he’s sensitive about that.”

 _No wonder Mac was crushed when Draco ribbed him about his clothes supplier, the day that Crookshanks shredded the little elf’s astronomical blue and gold smoking jacket_. The memory of that comical morning brings a smile to Hermione’s face.

She hooks her arm through Pansy’s as they reach the ground floor.

“Thanks, Pansy. For everything.”

“ _De nada_ , Pollyanna.”

* * *

Glaring up at the high lounge room ceiling, Draco broods over what the two witches are potentially saying about him right now. ‘ _Dick sizes’? They’d better not be comparing my cock with that ginger wanker’s! Anyway, as if the Weasel is bigger than me – wouldn’t matter, he could be hung like a Hippogriff and still fail to satisfy a witch… egotistical bastard probably believes the female orgasm is a myth…_

He bolts off his favourite armchair with a fright as the Floo fireplace flares green. _More sodding drop-ins!_

“Hey, did you miss me?” Blaise Zabini strolls out first, slapping Draco hard on the back before he pulls him into an unwilling hug. “Of course you did – I’m the whipped cream on everyone’s strawberries.” He ignores Draco’s scowl. “Where’s Hermione? We want to see how she’s recovering.”

Theo Nott shuffles out from behind Zabini’s taller figure. “Hi, Draco.” He looks apprehensive, but self-possessed and resolute.

“Hey, Theo.” Time to bite the apology bullet. “I’m sorry I throttled you, in the cafeteria. Thanks for looking out for Hermione – well, as much as she’d let you. And for accompanying them to St Mungo’s. I appreciate your support.” Draco grabs Theo’s hand and pumps it in a rough handshake, relieved when Theo quietly smiles his forgiveness.

“Where’s my thanks? I selflessly volunteered to stay behind and deal with the endless Ministry red tape and wild hysteria, you know,” Blaise peevishly inserts himself back into the dialogue. “And I was in charge of guarding Flint – he’s a feral, dangerous criminal. I could have been seriously injured, had he awoken.”

Draco scoffs, “What a bunch of baloney, Zabini: you sent Theo ahead because you knew I would be furious about the fact you didn’t accompany Hermione back from the courtrooms, and that I was likely to lash out at the nearest scapegoat. Don’t go playing the magnanimous hero, we all know you better than that.”

“I would be grossly offended, were that statement not partially true,” Blaise admits with one of his wide effervescent grins. “So where is your beloved? Are you engaged yet? Or are you content to live in sin for a while, while Hermione weighs up the cons and _cons_ of dating a whey-faced, wily Snake?”. He flops down onto the powder-blue sofa and indolently stretches his long arms along its back.

“How about that cuppa you promised me, on my first visit to your domicile? And some crustless sandwiches? I’m famished,” Blaise yawns.

“Get your filthy feet off my coffee table – and I don’t reward uninvited visitors with afternoon tea.” Draco turns to Nott. “Theo, may I offer you some refreshment?”.

Blaise’s exaggerated miffed howl makes them all laugh. Draco throws up his hands in querulous surrender.

“Fine. I’ll ask Macdolas to bring out some hot drinks and nibbles. But you’ll get whatever you’re given, Zabini. No hassling Macdolas, he has enough responsibilities already,” Draco admonishes.

A quick clacketing noise has all their heads turning to the doorway, as Pansy and Hermione enter, arms loosely linked.

Blaise finds his manners and slouches to his feet, remarking delightedly, “Ah – here comes the entertainment.” He lightly places a hand on each woman’s hip as he kisses their cheeks in the European fashion.

“Hallo! Hermione, I’m thrilled to see you looking so robust, Golden Girl. Pansy – you’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s been too long.” He gestures to the couch. “Come, have a seat. Draco was just about to organise afternoon tea.” Snapping his graceful fingers, he baits the blond wizard. “Honestly, Malfoy – your hospitality is appalling. Narcissa would be mortified to witness how parched and hungry we are.”

Theo grabs Draco’s arm before he can pull his wand and Stupefy the fool. “Leave him – he _is_ good for comical value,” his old friend points out. “Go sit with your lady, Draco.”

Before he rushes over to liberate his girlfriend from Blaise’s lingering hold, Draco summons Macdolas. He blinks at the startling new addition to the house elf’s garb: a horned Viking helmet that appears positively dangerous, given the width and angle of the silly horns.

“Macdolas, do you know that the horned Viking helmet is a fallacy? It’s been proven that it was a construct applied by Germans when they appropriated Norse myths into their own culture,” Draco chides. “And I’m honestly concerned you’ll stab one of us – or yourself – with that pointy monstrosity atop your head.”

The Scottish steward rebelliously juts his bottom lip as he retorts, “Macdolas files down the horns, Master Malfoy! Accessories maketh the man, so says Elf Vanguard magazine,” he argues, hitching his wide brown leather belt higher and fiddling at the chunky faux-fur leg warmers that cover the roughly-stitched boots. “Macdolas does not wear the complementary Carolingian sword, after Master Malfoy forbids the sabre scabbard,” he states, in a tone of great suffering and personal sacrifice.

“Way to go, Mac! You’re a true hero, and it’s only right that you should dress the part,” Blaise claps approvingly. “Now, may we trouble you for some afternoon tea, please? Perhaps a pot of Earl Grey, some tasty little sandwiches… I’m certainly not averse to noshing on a hot scone or four, or some buttery shortbread biscuits would really hit the spot– “

“Zabini, did I not warn you – three minutes ago! – not to pester Macdolas?” Draco snipes. He snaps his jaws hard enough to rattle his teeth. Hermione beckons him to sit beside her. Macdolas beams broadly at the gathered company before trotting importantly towards the kitchen.

“Malfoy, please come sit down – I need a hug,” she petitions. “Ignore Blaise – it’s the best revenge. He thrives on any attention, good or bad. Starve him with indifference.”

Pansy hoots and Theo grins at Hermione’s caustic put-down, as Draco walks over to lead Hermione from the sofa. He sits down in his armchair and manoeuvres her onto his lap, waiting until she has found her balance before zealously hugging and kissing his charming witch. Their cuddles immediately assuage his cranky mood, and send intoxicating tingles throughout his nervous system.

Of course, the peanut gallery begins to catcall them; Draco breaks their kiss to unequivocally proclaim, “This is our home, and you are all unsolicited, shameless moochers or wannabe comedians. If you don’t like the view – piss off. Or prepare to be hexed.”

His stern reproof fails to gain any traction with the trio of ex-Slytherins, who merely adopt identical po-faced miens, before simultaneously bursting into loud, sniggering cackles.

 _Pack of unfunny arseholes_. Draco sets aside his ire as Hermione gently turns his face back to hers. “It’s nice to have friends, isn’t it?” she whispers. He nods in reply, as emotion closes his vocal chords. She cards her fingers through the blond strands at the back of his head, before she slants her lips across his for another drugging kiss.

_You’ve done this, he thinks in wonderment and gratitude. You’ve brought these idiotic, extraordinary people back into my orbit – because you’re my sun, Hermione Jean Granger._

_My glorious, golden sun._


	39. Exposure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys: Draco's big reveal.  
> Apologies if it wasn't what you were expecting, or if I've built it up too much.  
> It's a sensitive topic, and one that I have familial experience with.  
> The angst is going to get worse before it gets better - but I promise, it will get better.  
> Thank you all very much for reading.  
> I truly appreciate you.  
> xoxo VJ

__

_Friday 14 March 2003: AM_

Hermione waves a perfectly prepared square of French toast (topped with crisp bacon and honey) beneath her frowning blond boyfriend’s aristocratic nose. “Malfoy – it’s unlike you to not try to filch my breakfast… what’s up? What are you reading?” she points the loaded fork at the letter in his hand, before popping the tasty morsel into her own mouth and chewing it with undisguised relish.

“Too late – and that was the last bite,” she smirks. Draco’s countenance clears, leaning across to breach the short distance between their chairs, to better enable him to lick a droplet of honey from the corner of her mouth. His tongue darts out again to trace her full bottom lip, before he straightens in his chair and hands over the parchment he’s been brooding over for the last few minutes.

“Mother sent us an invitation to dinner at the Manor tonight… but she begs your permission to include Lucius in the party.” Draco’s mouth curls sardonically as he adds, “I was contemplating the most polite manner in which to reply, ‘No fucking way’. Any ideas?”. He drums the fingers of his left hand against the tabletop as he awaits her response.

“Yes – I propose we agree. Let Lucius attend; I’d like to judge for myself as to whether he’s ever going to accept you and I as a couple.” Hermione almost laughs at the gobsmacked expression on Draco’s face as he processes her suggestion. _That stumped you, big boy._

Before he can rally his wits to roundly protest, she elucidates, “Remember when you told me yesterday that you were going to dial down your overprotectiveness? Well, you can start by not challenging me on this issue, please. I know that your current relationship with Lucius is tenuous and uneasy, but this is important to Narcissa.”

Hermione aligns her cutlery flat in the middle of her empty plate before she strokes a soft finger down his right cheek. “Besides, if it all goes pear-shaped, we’ll simply leave. OK?”.

Draco grumbles, “I said I _recognized_ my overprotectiveness, not that I would necessarily agree to reduce it… Granger, are you absolutely sure you’re up for this? There is no pressure coming from Mother – please don’t accede to this for her sake.” He curls his left hand around the nape of her neck as his troubled anthracite eyes search her own.

“I’m positive. And I promise, if I feel uncomfortable or triggered in the slightest degree, I’ll make my excuses and we shall leave,” Hermione nods reassuringly.

“I don’t like it – Lucius is an unknown quantity much of the time – “

“He deserves one chance. If he botches this dinner, I’m done.” Hermione unequivocally states. “Now, weren’t you going to run me through some defensive spellwork, and close-combat physical techniques?” she prompts, rising from the table to carry her and Draco’s plates to the sink. “Thank you for breakfast, Mac – that was utterly delicious,” she pops the dirty dishes into the frothy hot water. The sponge and scourer that the industrious little house elf has already enspelled begin their efficient scrubbing at once.

“Her Grace Lady Granger is too kind; Macdolas cooks Her Grace any meal of her choosing, she needs only speak her preference!” the miniature major-domo gladly announces, from his perch on the stool nearest the humming little Muggle radio. “Macdolas respectfully petitions Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger that he may be allowed to also attend the Malfoy family Friday dinner and assist his beloved girlfriend Ruibby in its preparation and presentation, if it so pleases?”. The proud grin that wreathes his face as he mentions his elven sweetheart is impossibly broad.

“’Grandmother, what big teeth you have got!’” Draco facetiously quotes beneath his breath; Hermione casts a reproachful look in his direction. Fortunately, Mac hasn’t heard Malfoy’s impertinent quip.

“Of course you’re coming with us, Mac – and Ruibby’s officially your girlfriend now, hmmm?” Hermione gently teases. Macdolas nods slightly before he bashfully drops his head onto his chest… or tries to, as the ridiculously high shirt points of his insanely over-starched white Regency collar impede the movement.

“You’ll slice your own throat, or choke yourself if you’re not careful, Macdolas – assuming your elaborate silk cravat doesn’t finish you off first. What the deuce possessed you to order your shirt points to extend up to your ears like the dandiest of dandies?” Draco reproves, though his indulgent smile softens the scolding.

“Macdolas models his style on Master Charles Bingley and defends the veracity of such attire! Look, Master Malfoy – Macdolas sports the gold tasselled Hessians, the beribboned quizzing glass, and the fob watch at his waist– “

“What, no Sèvres snuffbox? Tsk, tsk,” Malfoy shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“Macdolas has the box of snuff, he fills it with Jelly Slugs, they be Ruibby’s favourite,” the excitable elf produces a small ornate porcelain antique receptacle from the pocket of his dark gold brocade waistcoat and rattles the gummy lollies inside it as proof, while Draco chuckles.

“Oh, how thoughtful – Ruibby is a very lucky little lady, Mac,” Hermione steps in before Malfoy’s shameless raillery worsens. “And you look terribly smart and authentic. Don’t listen to Draco, he wishes he could dress as sharply as you.”

“Indeed. Before you flounce off in a huff, Macdolas, a word – you’d best keep the fall front of your buff breeches buttoned with regards to little Ruibby, _comprenez-tu_? Mother will have my hide if her housekeeper’s virtue were to be jeopardized by my butler.” Draco ignores Hermione’s groan and Macdolas’s outraged squeaky yowl as he carries on, “All handsies stay above waisties, please. Now, do I need to have ‘The Talk’ with you, as well?”.

“I think _I_ need to have ‘The Talk’ with you, Malfoy! ‘Jeopardize her virtue’ – truly? Drag yourself out of the chauvinistic nineteenth century, you presumptuous hypocrite.” Hermione focuses on the irate steward currently glaring daggers at her wizard beau. “Calm down, Mac – as long as you and Ruibby treat each other respectfully, and always ensure enthusiastic consent, you’ll be right as rain.”

“Macdolas never dreams of – of – of _jeopardizing_ his darlingest Ruibby! Master Malfoy oversteps his authority… Macdolas keeps a tight rein on his – his _libido_ ,” he whispers the last word on a scandalized note.

“I beg to differ – I saw you two in the hallway, remember? Going at it hammer and tongs, out in the open for anyone to witness,” Draco rebuts, crossing his arms sternly.

“Ruibby encourages Macdolas! He temporarily loses his head as the sweet vixen Ruibby bids Macdolas to– “

“OK, OK, let’s leave it at that,” Hermione hastily interrupts as the dialogue rapidly devolves into something she’d much rather not consider ( _not now, not ever_ ). “Malfoy, quit passing judgement on Mac’s love life; and Mac, please be sure you’re both ready for – whatever,” she lamely concludes.

Laying a final consoling pat on Macdolas’s skinny shoulder, Hermione crosses over to Draco to grab his hand and lead him from the room. “We’re going to practise our defensive skills in the lounge room now. Mac, would you please inform Lady Malfoy of our R.S.V.P for tonight’s dinner? Thank you.”

Glower easing a few shades, Macdolas nods before he Disapparates.

Hermione rounds on Draco before the minor reverberations of the elf’s teleportation have wittered away. “Harry told me of your effusive thanks to Macdolas for saving me from Marcus Flint – is this how you repay him, by needling him about his sweetheart? Have you forgotten your gratitude towards him already, Malfoy?” she chastises.

“Hey, that little rascal has played the ‘protective papa’ role with you long enough – and Ruibby is under my aegis, too,” Draco argues, sliding his hawthorn wand from his trouser pocket and employing it to wordlessly shift the sofa, armchairs and coffee table to the far corner of the spacious living room. “And _you_ didn’t have to experience the elvish ‘libido’ up close and personal, Granger. They were really getting down and dirty, Macdolas had his– “

“Stop! I overheard enough of your conversation with Harry – I beg you to desist, or I’ll never be able to look Mac in the eye again,” Hermione winces as Draco laughs. “Just cut him some slack – please?”.

Having rearranged the furniture to his liking, Draco stows his wand back in his pocket, turning to wrap his strong arms around her and hug her tightly. Hermione pretends to resist his advances for form’s sake, giggling as he growls and rubs his nose along the side of her neck.

“You’ve a hopelessly huge heart, Granger… has there ever been a waif and stray, or a beleaguered creature you haven’t rushed to shelter beneath your wide wings?” Draco asks rhetorically, pulling away slightly to look down at her. The slow, open smile that always makes her heart pang is stretched across his handsome face, chasing away his habitual aspect of aloof gravity. “Rest easy, ma petite. I’ll apologize to Macdolas for my saltiness when he returns from the Manor.” His mouth alights on hers in a butterfly-light brief kiss.

“Now – let us begin…”

* * *

“Show me again. Talk through each action, Granger,” Draco instructs for the hundredth or so time.

 _Cripes – talk about a harsh taskmaster_. Draco had shifted from tender boyfriend to merciless DADA professor before Hermione had had the chance to draw breath; he’d thrown jinxes and hexes at her relentlessly, until she’d literally scrambled behind the couch for some breathing space.

She’d been ashamed of her rustiness, and equal parts awed and perturbed by Draco’s thorough knowledge of the wide array of wicked offensive spells favoured by Dark Wizards. Most troubling, though, had been the blank, lost look on his face whilst he’d been slinging spells left, right, and centre. Her disgruntled muttered complaint about the fierce onslaught of his casting had evoked a grim reply.

“Granger, this isn’t some civilized Duelling Club at Hogwarts – the filth that have been hunting you like a tasty rabbit won’t gift you a two minute recess at the end of the round! Nor will they hesitate in fighting dirty. There’s only one rule when you’re fighting for your life: _win the bloody fight_. Raise your wand.”

And off they went again. Gritting her teeth, she’d drawn on long unused skill sets and shadowy magical knowledge that she’d hoped never to have to use again. _I’ve been naïve to think that nothing could endanger me again, once we won the War. Evil will never be wholly vanquished, and I was a chump to believe otherwise_ , Hermione had dolefully admitted to herself during a brief break when Draco fetched some cool water for her parched throat.

 _If anyone comes for me or mine again – I’ll be ready._ And so she’d stiffened her spine and shored up her flagging spirits as she’d hurled and deflected another vicious round of hexes.

After a full hour of duelling, Draco had called a halt; but the lesson had not ended there.

“Put down your wand and have a drink of water while I Transfigure the couch cushions into some gymnastic mats to break our falls,” Draco had decreed, as a sweaty and drained Hermione had trudged out of the way. Her loose navy cotton drawstring pants and azure cotton tee had been splotched with sweaty patches and soot from the residual sparks of their aggressive magic.

“Are you ready? Lesson one: **RUN**. You did that at The Wonky Donkey, and it’s always the best response. Lesson two: if you can’t run, don’t let them take you anywhere. Which leads into lesson three: _fight_. Scream. Growl, bite, scratch, punch, gouge. Use your elbows, feet, knees, teeth and claws. Headbutt them into next week if they get close enough. Go for their eyes, groin, temples, nose, fingers, toes, kneecaps. Rip out their hair. Stick your fingers up their nostrils and shove them up as hard as you can, yank their ears.”

Draco had paused his descriptive training as he’d noted her shocked expression. “What? You don’t think that’s ‘fighting fair’? Is it fair that girls are socialized from the cradle to be submissive and ‘weak’, to submerge their anger and physical strength? To ignore their gut instincts and tolerate the unacceptable behaviour of predatory males?” he’d snapped.

He’d softened as she’d bitten her lip and shaken her head. “I apologize – I came on too strong. I understand it’s not easy to change the learned behaviours of a lifetime… I’m sorry. We can address this tomorrow, if you’d prefer.”

_Pfft. As if a Gryff is going to walk away now._

“No – we’re doing this today. Show me exactly what you’re talking about, please. And don’t hold back, Malfoy. I need to know this.” _What did Pansy say, yesterday? ‘I won’t be anyone’s victim… not again’?_ Setting aside the disturbing implications of Pansy’s appended phrase (for now), Hermione had stepped confidently onto the mat. “Don’t pull any punches – I’m ready.”

The next sixty minutes had been eye-opening. Draco had come at her from behind, front, sideways, and shown her a variety of ways to escape the holds, from the oddly simple dropping-down, to more aggressive methods (“if he puts a hand over your mouth, bite it,”). Perhaps the most disturbing technique was what Draco referred to as ‘going for the throat’.

“If you’re flat on your back and he’s pinned down your legs and arms with sheer superior strength, and he’s too close for you to effectively deliver the Liverpool kiss, what do you do?” Draco had quizzed, not awaiting her response as he’d explained, “As soon as he gets close enough, you clamp down your teeth on the carotid artery in his neck and you tear out his throat. It’s gruesome and it’s bloody, but it’s effective.”

“I doubtless don’t have to tell you this, but the strongest muscle in the human body is the masseter in the jaw. Combined with our thick enamel and large tooth roots, our bite force is efficient and powerful.” Draco had traced the outline of Hermione’s jawline with a gentle finger as he’d sombrely observed, “Obviously, neither of us want you to have to test that method – but if it comes down to it, do not hesitate. Promise me, Granger… please.”

His eyes had been wracked with disquiet; probably from the memory of her recent assault, she had inferred.

“Yes – I promise.” Hermione had cautiously ventured, ”Malfoy… how is it that you are so well-versed in these matters? Was it part of your private education? Are all boys taught these things? Or was it – was it something you learned, from… ”

“From being a Death Eater?” Draco had correctly guessed the words she’d been hesitant to speak. “None of the above: it was actually Theo who taught me how to fight.”

“Theo Nott? But – but he seems so gentle… and he never involved himself in the bitter House rivalries…” Hermione had mused.

Smoothing a wayward flaxen strand back into place, Draco had divulged, “We used to ‘fight’ each other when we were kids – Theo was forever hunting out new books on brawling techniques and battle strategies. I went along with it as a lark… in hindsight, I realize it was a far more serious occupation on his part. He was trying to find ways to defend himself against his father’s abuse– ”.

Clearing his throat, Draco reluctantly continues. “When Theo was three years old, Nott Senior murdered his mother, right in front of him. And he systematically abused Theo… physically and emotionally, up until the wretched fiend’s death.”

 _Oh! Oh, no. Poor, tormented Theo_. Hermione had knuckled at her eyes as they’d welled with sympathetic tears. Draco had gathered her close and whispered the rest after kissing the top of her damp head.

“I didn’t know of Theo’s suffering until recently, _ma petite_. He told us the night that we three were grilling my father about the Death Eater’s wicked proclivities; Theo related the whole sorry tale as though he were reading out Quidditch scores. It was… harrowing.”

Hermione had gulped back her sobs and stepped back, determined to finish the session. “Thank you for trusting me with Theo’s history – I shan’t mention it, unless he does.” Rolling out the soreness in her shoulders, she’d loftily waved her hand in the classic bent-palm ‘bring it on’ beckoning gesture. “Come at me, big boy,” she’d taunted.

Draco had exhaled a rusty laugh at her antics as he’d circled her weaving form on the mat. “What’s that little affectation mean, Granger? Inviting me round for high tea? You’re too kind.”

“It’s from a cyberpunk science fiction action movie called ‘The Matrix’ that borrows heavily from cult martial arts films – and it’s awesome. Harry made me watch it with him, he loves it,” Hermione reveals with a pert grin. “What are you waiting for?”.

And so they’d grappled and scrapped again, up until Hermione had managed to accidentally bloody Draco’s nose with the heel of her palm; instead of being cross, he’d robustly applauded before he’d wiped away most of the scarlet drops. After chanting a quick “Episkey”, she’d apologized repeatedly.

“Enough – I am delighted with your progress, and my nose is just as perfectly shaped as it ever was. I’ll keep an extra apology for the last time you whacked me in the schnoz, though,” Draco now teases with a quirked eyebrow.

“But I’m not sorry about _that_ slap,” Hermione states. “Ha! What’s next?”. She jiggles on the spot, flushed with satisfaction at the productivity of their tutorial.

“A shower, then lunch,” Draco cricks his neck from side-to-side as he replies. “I’ll even carry you upstairs, as a reward for being my star pupil… and because we both enjoy it so much,” Draco grins, pocketing his wand and nodding at Hermione to do the same.

“Fine, although I know you get more out of it than I– hey! Cut it out, Malfoy!” Hermione finds herself flipped over Draco’s shoulder and staring at his tight buns before she has a chance to realize his naughty intent.

He smacks her lightly on her bum as she squeals.

“Settle, petal… and enjoy the ride.”

* * *

The deliciously warm water streaming down her head and back would be quite enough to send Hermione into her current hazy state of sensual euphoria… but the addition of a certain blond mage busily applying his skilful tongue and agile fingers to her ‘honeypot’ (as her jelly-like legs struggle to keep her upright in the shower) tips her into utter bliss.

She’d had little indication of Draco’s prurient intentions until she’d felt his warm body abutting her own as he’d pressed his chest to her back and purred in her startled ear, “Feel like sharing? Do you enjoy frolicking in water, Granger?”. His already erect rod had notched against the top curve of her rump as Draco had reached around to transfer the fancy, sweet-smelling soap bar from her hand to his.

“I – I don’t know,” Hermione had shyly admitted. “You mean sex in the shower, right?” she’d felt compelled to confirm.

“And thence died Innuendo, killed instantly by Bald Candour,” Draco had chuckled. “Yes, _ma douce tourterelle._ Watching you wield that wand and connect with the more physical aspect of your being was an incredible turn-on; but of course, the choice is yours.”

Hermione had nearly brained herself on the gleaming tapware in her eagerness to nod and proclaim her accord. Smiling, Draco had carefully pressed her back to the cool indigo tiles and re-angled the showerheads to avoid her eyes yet keep her body warm during his erotic ministrations.

After kissing her breathless, Draco had explored every dip and convexity of her wet skin with the ardent attention of a professional cartographer, the fragrant soap quickly lathering to a thick foam as he’d paid especial regard to her out-thrust breasts.

“Malfoy, I think they’re clean,” Hermione had gasped, as he’d rubbed winding concentric circles around each protuberant pink nipple in turn, juggling the soap from one hand to the other with the expertise of a man born to the circus.

“Mmmm – best to be sure,” and Draco had given each nub a last tweak before sliding down and kneeling before her, nudging open her quavering thighs before ruffling his lean digits through her drenched rosewood-brown curls, the soap tossed recklessly to the far corner of the large shower cubicle. “I’ll address the maintenance of your glorious mop-top after I’ve seen to your other needs, Granger.”

“Lean back, and don’t think of England,” Draco had quipped; Hermione’s snicker had shifted to a gasped moan as he’d parted her nether lips and gazed hungrily at the rosy flesh he’d exposed. His touch to her aching clitoris had not been as gentle as she’d been expecting; the slightly rough stroke of Draco’s thumbs had made her arch her back and push closer toward his soaked blond head.

“Don’t – don’t drown down there,” Hermione had warned, only half-jokingly. The luxurious showerheads’ powerful sprays were thrumming just as strongly as they had when she’d first stepped in. Draco hadn’t deigned to reply, preferring to place his hot mouth on her sex and suckle hard.

Now Hermione is mewling, alternately gripping his silken straight locks and bracing herself on the tempered glass and tiles as Draco pumps three fingers inside her molten core while ravaging her pink pearl. His right hand is gripping her thigh, holding her steady as he licks and bites and sucks. She is aware she is raving somewhat incoherently, telling Draco how wonderful he feels in a variety of sobbed, broken phrases.

Disentangling a hand from his abused hair, Hermione squeezes her right nipple as she feels her orgasm screaming toward her, a mighty, turbulent wave of sensation that aptly floods her system as Draco reacts to her convulsions and thrusts his fingers deep inside, curling against her inner clitoral wall and pushing her peak higher and longer. He only gentles his movements when her head lolls onto her chest, and her hands fall limply by her sides.

“ _Ma petite_? Do you wish for me to be inside you?” Draco whispers his query into the shell of her ear after he stands up, finally sliding his fingers from her damp crease and moving them to slowly pump his thick hard cock with brutal, choking strokes. “Or may I come on your belly… I’m so close…”

The thought of having Draco’s swollen girth inside her spasming crevice is irresistible. Hermione manages to rasp, “Inside me… please, Malfoy – ” as her hands wrap around his neck.

“Yes – hold on, _ma magnifique sorcière sexy_ – that’s it, I have you,” Draco settles his hands around her hips, hoisting her securely against the tiled wall and pushing betwixt her thighs as her languid legs dangle. “Can you hook your ankles to the small of my back, and lock them? That’s it… give me your beautiful eyes, Hermione. Please,” Draco entreats, shuffling closer as his distended staff presses inside her in one vigorous push. Hermione groans at the rapturous feeling of fullness.

‘Am I too rough? Tell me, _ma chérie_ ,” he stills, his dark granite eyes lasering into her blinking mocha orbs.

“Never too rough – more, Draco… please,” Hermione urges huskily.

Cupping her bottom, Draco growls with each dynamic thrust, expressing his pleasure hoarsely as he enunciates, “Hermione – _Je te veux tellement, je ne cesserai jamais de te vouloir - d'avoir besoin de toi!_ Look at what you do to me – look at me, Hermione.” He crashes down his lips upon hers as she feels him coming hard, his cock spurting hotly into her womb, triggering a small aftershock climax of her own. He ruts against her as she ruffles her hands through his water-slick coiffure, swapping tender kisses as the carnal forcefulness of their joining eases.

Draco closes his eyes and rests his forehead on hers for a few affectionate moments, before he finally slips from her thoroughly satiated body and guides her feet back to the floor. His warm smile matches her own as the twin showerheads continue to rain refreshing water onto their skin.

Hermione blurts the first random thought that pops into her head.

“You must have a really good hot water system, Malfoy.”

* * *

_Friday 14 March 2003: PM_

“Look at this crazy little Casanova – he’s practically skipping,” Draco mutters into Hermione’s ear as they negotiate the gravelled driveway of Malfoy Manor. “Are we certain he hasn’t slipped Ruibby a love potion of some description?”.

“Shush – Mac’s only just forgiven you your earlier mockery. Don’t go baiting him anew, please. Look at how cute he is!” Hermione chastens, as Macdolas gambols ahead of them like a spring lamb.

Draco wrinkles his nose in disagreement. “There’s a fine line between ‘cute’ and ‘twee’ – and that goose jumped over it ages ago.” He splices his fingers between hers as he abruptly changes the subject. “Granger – are you positive you’re ready for this dinner? We can turn around at any time.”

“Yes, I know; and I am prepared. You needn’t worry about me, Malfoy. I’m curious to gauge for myself whether Lucius has managed to effect a true personality shift,” Hermione assures her uneasy swain.

Shrugging, Draco sardonically returns, “It will come as no great shock to you to discern that my father _is_ still an arsehole; though mayhap a more repentant one, these days.” He sighs as Macdolas impatiently gestures for them to proceed through the heavy wooden door that the sassy seneschal is holding open for them. “Do you share my sense that the servant has become the master? Cheeky monkey.”

“I have little sympathy – it serves you right for being a big old softie. That’s OK, I happen to greatly enjoy your squishy marshmallow centre,” Hermione lightly pinches Draco’s indignant cheek.

His grumblings are curtailed as Narcissa glides toward them as they cross the foyer. Her long, pomegranate red gown is styled to perfectly showcase her trim figure, her billowing sleeves showing glimpses of her ivory arms and dainty wrists. Hermione feels a tad scruffy by comparison, dressed as she is in her basic black cocktail dress. _I suspect any woman would though, standing beside Narcissa’s expensive elegance._

“Hello, Hermione,” the high-born witch’s hug is firm but brief. “I’m relieved to note you are hale and hearty once again, dear.” Lady Malfoy turns to her son, holding her hands to her hips as she absorbs his apprehensive expression. “Draco, your father has vowed to be on his best behaviour. I shall Stupefy him myself, should he even think of stepping out of line.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Draco drops a kiss to her proffered cheek before he twines his hand with Hermione’s once again. “Shall we go in? Our incurably enamoured butler is near climbing the walls to see Ruibby again,” he nods at the fidgeting house elf.

“Ruibby’s been heard singing whilst going about her duties, so the feeling must be mutual,” Narcissa imparts in a stage whisper as she leads the way to the dining room. “Thank you, Macdolas,” she says in a louder voice, as he opens the door.

Hermione follows her first, almost bumping into Narcissa’s slender back as the other woman suddenly halts. “That’s odd; Lucius isn’t here yet… well, he should be along directly. I’ve put you on either side of me, and Lucius at the head of the table. Does that suit you, Draco?” she checks, a little anxiously.

“Of course.” Draco holds out Hermione’s chair while Macdolas does the same for Narcissa.

Once seated, Hermione enquires, “How are you, Narcissa? Draco has mentioned that you are quietly involved in a number of charities: may I ask what that entails?”.

“Oh, of course! Miss Parkinson helped to steer me in the correct direction, actually. She’s a fierce supporter of our feminist rights, and– ”

Whatever Narcissa meant to say next is lost as the dining room door bangs open, admitting a wild-eyed Lucius. He is holding onto a folded newspaper for dear life, and hastens to tuck it inside the open jacket of his black silk suit.

 _These Malfoys and their Goth propensities,_ Hermione muses. _Perhaps it’s hardwired into their DNA…_

Narcissa’s stifled shriek of dismay directs her attention back to the little drama being played out.

“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, what has happened? Did you forget that our guests were due for dinner?” she sharply challenges.

The rail-thin wizard in question seems to be having trouble looking at anyone directly. The grey eyes so similar to Draco’s slide over Hermione as Lucius stiffly answers, “I’m afraid I was unavoidably delayed, Narcissa dearest. Ms Granger, thank you for your attendance. I am very sorry for all the wrongs I have done you in the past, and I appreciate your willingness to… to move forward. Here. Tonight, I mean. Dinner – and forgiving Draco; it was my fault he was cruel to you, I apologize…” he falters.

 _Something is terribly wrong_. Hermione is surprised to find her silly heart has the capacity to feel the tiniest blip of concern for the man. _His fluster is verging on panic – is he usually this jumpy and disconcerted?_

Draco must share her opinion; he rises to his feet as Lucius attempts to walk past him to gain his seat. “Father – what is it? What’s going on?” he urgently demands, his left hand reaching to hold Lucius’s scrawny shoulder.

The newspaper falls to the floor with an over-loud rustle. Lucius swiftly stoops to pick it up, nearly losing his balance in the process. “No, Draco – leave it!” he cries, as his son gathers the Evening Prophet beneath his own arm before steadying his father.

“Sit down, Lucius.” Draco steers him into the high-backed baroque chair before he steps back and flips open the newspaper. He goes completely rigid within a second of glimpsing the headline, only his leaden eyes moving as he rapidly scans the news item.

“I told you to leave it, son,” Lucius whispers dully, cradling his head in his bony hands.

“Malfoy? Tell me what’s happening – please?”. Sick dread coils in Hermione’s belly as Draco’s hands begin to shake. He folds and refolds the thick broadsheets, trying to reduce it to an impossibly small size. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused, and his alabaster skin has bleached to an alarmingly sallow hue. Hermione stands at the same time that Narcissa shoots to her feet.

“Draco! Snap out of this, _mon fils_!” Lady Malfoy exclaims, her high voice displaying her incipient alarm. “We will deal with whatever is happening, darling.”

Both women flinch as Draco tosses down the newsprint onto the table. It lands face-up with a soft thud.

“See for yourselves.” His voice is as numb as his expression as he turns his haunted eyes to Hermione. “I’m sorry, Granger. I never meant for you to find out this way… I was going to tell you all, tonight…” he gulps. “This is punishment for my hubris.”

Before she glances at the paper, Hermione implores, “Draco – whatever this is, I’m here for you. Just let me process this, OK?”. She may as well be speaking to a stone; Draco has reverted to his impersonation of a marble statue.

She reefs the paper closer with a shaking forefinger.

**‘DARK DEATH EATER DRACO IS A DIABOLICAL DRUNK!**

**SEE BELOW FOR PICTURES OF HIS DEGENERATE DEBAUCHERY!’**

“The Evening Prophet has uncovered the truth behind disgraced Death Eater Draco Malfoy’s mysterious disappearance from the Wizardly World over three years ago – his attempts to drink himself to death ended with his forced treatment in a Muggle rehabilitation unit for alcoholics and drug addicts! The Prophet has the exclusive details of how the so-called ‘Slytherin Prince’ fell from grace and landed at the bottom of a Firewhiskey bottle. Read our two-page special edition inside for the full scoop.’

The worst thing about the ‘moving’ magical photograph of Draco that fills the entirety of the rest of the front page is that it _isn’t_ moving; Hermione’s heart aches at the terrible, confronting sight of an unconscious, semi-nude Draco, curled in a foetal ball on the filthy carpet of a squalid little room. A stream of mud-coloured vomit trails from his parted lips to the rug beneath his head; his distinctive blond hair is lying in the regurgitated puddle. The snapshot shows the end of a rumpled, sagging bed behind him, and two empty bottles of alcohol are toppled onto their sides beside his inert form. He appears lifeless, and frighteningly gaunt.

 _Oh, Draco… my poor, sad, tormented sweetheart_. Hermione staves off her tears as she angrily demands, “Who took this fucking travesty of a photograph?”

“The witch I was with, that night. I couldn’t tell you her name – I don’t believe I bothered to learn it at the time,” Draco informs her in a dreary monotone.

“Her name is Actrise Jessup – and she is a foul, evil, conniving little bitch,” Narcissa venomously avers. “She was a plant, a – what do you call it? A honeytrap! Working for the Daily Prophet in a sting to expose Draco at his most vulnerable. And he almost died that night – he would have, if not for Rita Skeeter getting word to me about where he was and what was happening.”

Hermione’s incredulous look spurs Narcissa to explicate, “Rita didn’t act out of the goodness of her scheming heart – I paid her a small fortune in Galleons to make this photograph and the exposé disappear. Forever – or so I was assured, at the time.”

Draco cuts in. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not saying anything that isn’t true.” He looks directly at Hermione for the first time since the loathsome paper’s introduction. She is terrified by the resigned hopelessness trapped in his dry, anguished eyes.

“My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am an alcoholic.”

* * *

**French translations:**

 _ma douce tourterelle_ – my sweet turtledove.

 _ma magnifique sorcière sexy_ – my gorgeous sexy witch.

 _Je te veux tellement, je ne cesserai jamais de te vouloir - d'avoir besoin de toi!_ – I want you so badly, I'll never stop wanting you - needing you!


	40. Confession

__

_Friday 14 March 2003: PM_

“My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am an alcoholic.”

The abject pity and sadness in Hermione’s big brown eyes after Draco utters that well-used phrase cause his stressed airways to shrink further. He feels as though his detached words are being spoken from the end of a long tunnel. The mocking, cynical part of his psyche wonders whether he might yet emulate a cliched Victorian heroine and faint dead away; he manages to will away the grey spots stippling his vision and maintains his rigorous posture.

 _Buck up, you weakling – your craven reluctance to tell Hermione the truth has led you directly to this moment. The least you can do is provide her with an explanation. But not here… not with this audience._ Even Macdolas is jittering in the corner by the door, hopping from one skinny leg to the other as his hyperbolic lawn-green eyes track across the humans’ distressed faces.

Forcing his vocal chords back into action, Draco moves his gaze to Hermione’s left ear as he hoarsely requests, “Granger, may I speak with you privately, please?”.

He is both relieved and uneasy when she instantly nods.

“Oh, Draco – of course.”

He tips his silvery head curtly toward the door, which Macdolas opens as they approach from their opposite sides of the antique dining table. Thrusting his twitching hands in his pockets to avoid taking the palm Hermione automatically tenders, Draco ignores the expression of hurt that crosses her sweet face. “We’ll speak in the library, if you don’t mind.” He waves a jerky hand in that direction; she silently precedes him.

Running the salient points he needs to cover over in his mind helps to keep some of his swelling panic at bay. Draco opens the library door and gestures silently to the comfortable brown armchairs. Hermione sits stiffly on the edge of one of them, curling her lithe legs to the side.

She parts her mouth to speak, but Draco interrupts, “I’ll remain standing, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, actually; if you intend to pace about the room like a caged panther, I shall too,” Hermione retorts with a little of her customary vim.

“Fine. I’ll sit down,” Draco sighs. He nudges his own chair back a few inches; he needs more distance. He adjusts his trouser lengths and the cuffs of his dark cobalt suit jacket in an effort to settle his thundering heart and erratic breathing.

 _Fuck – where to begin?_ He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling overwhelmed by the unsavoury discourse looming ahead of him. _It’s your own pusillanimous fault, you’ve procrastinated over telling her for bloody weeks… just get on with it._

“That photograph – I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I just wanted to be… numb,” Draco blurts, regretting his bluntness as Hermione’s eyes round in shock and grief. “No, Granger: just let me speak, please,” he forestalls her outstretched arm and the questions he glimpses forming in her eyes. “I’ll answer any and all of your queries, once I’ve said my piece,” he rasps.

Subdued, Hermione relaxes her hunched pose a little as she grips her hands tightly in her lap.

“I didn’t start drinking in earnest until after the War; I suppose you know I spent two months in Azkaban, awaiting trial? And then I was sentenced to six months of house arrest, here?”. Draco continues without waiting for her tiny acknowledging nod.

“As you are no doubt aware, Lucius was punished with five years of house arrest, and the permanent revocation of his right to carry or use a wand. We were released from prison at roughly the same time, and neither of us coped well with our straitened circumstances. Don’t get me wrong – the Wizengamot were far more lenient on us both than we had any right to expect. I suspect your and Potter’s testimonies went a long way to granting us that grace.” Hermione’s lambent cocoa eyes haven’t left Draco’s face since he started talking. He fixes his own regard to her hands as he strives to remain as unemotional as possible in his recount.

“Shacklebolt disbanding the Dementors from Azkaban and replacing them with Aurors meant I survived Azkaban OK, though I am in no hurry to return. I think I was still rather numb, and I had trouble processing my relative freedom – and the fact I was still breathing. But once I came home, my nightmares accelerated, and I was too fearful to sleep for longer than a snatched half hour here and there. Lucius started providing me with ‘nightcaps’ of Firewhiskey; I took to hard spirits like the proverbial duck to water,” Draco discloses.

He doesn’t realize he is rubbing rhythmically at his left forearm, until Hermione casts it a pointed look. Draco grips the buttery brown leather ends of the armchair instead. “It didn’t take long before I was shifting the ‘I won’t touch a drop until the sun goes down,’ line to ‘Just a little nip before dinner won’t hurt anyone’. The nips became drams, the drams became tumblers… then I was sneaking off with an entire bottle and drinking most of it before passing out. Being disgustingly rich helped me keep my habit more or less hidden; and as the newly pronounced Lord Malfoy, I had all the Galleons I could ever need at my drunken fingertips.” His laugh is more a bitter gasp than a chuckle.

“Then my home arrest was lifted, and I partied with Blaise and Theo like it was 1999 – well, it _was_ 1999\. Sorry, poor joke,” he apologizes as Hermione simply stares sorrowfully at his pale face. Draco hesitates as he tells her, “For a while there, I went home with whichever witch would have me… though I suspect most were disappointed by my ‘whiskey-dick’ issues, and incoherent ramblings.” Hermione drops her thick dark eyelashes to hide her reaction, but Draco sees her knuckles whiten in her lap at his confession.

“The alcohol and the women never made me feel any less lonely – just anesthetized. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t sharing in everyone else’s relief, and the joy and excitement of fashioning a new ‘normal’… all I craved was to obliterate the memories I couldn’t live with, in both my waking and sleeping hours. I told myself I could stop drinking at any time, of course.”

Hermione breaks in. “Malfoy – you had PTSD… you know that, right?”. She stretches to place a tentative little hand on his knee. Even through the thick material of his navy suit trousers, the warmth of her touch sends heat and succor oozing through his fraught nervous system.

 _Don’t touch her… you won’t be able to stop. Quell your selfish urge to wallow in her tender, generous solace._ Draco hardens his resolve and wills his traitorous body not to lean closer. The subtle, irresistible fragrance of her lightly perfumed skin drifts beneath his nose. _No. Stay focused._

“I know that, now… but the wizarding world isn’t big on addressing psychological disorders, Granger.” He shrugs, lean fingers pressing a little harder into the lovingly polished, upholstered brown hide as he tries to affect an impassive countenance.

“Anyway, Mother was the first to suspect I had a serious problem. The boys – Blaise and Theo, I mean – told me a few times that I was out of control, but they were busy dealing with their own guilt and disorientation. We were still teenagers – not that our age made any difference, I don’t mean to try to excuse my poor judgment– ”

“Hey – I get it. I developed some peculiar coping mechanisms when the War was over, too,” Hermione consoles. At Draco’s disbelieving quirked eyebrow, she confides, “I started counting things… cars, buses, people… my footsteps, raindrops on the window pane. Anything around me, really. And then I’d feel edgy if the count ended on an odd number, unless it was a doubled numeral – like ‘33’, or ‘77’. So I’d find more things to count, and so on…” Draco quirks a disapproving eyebrow as she raises a hand to graunch at her carved forearm scar, but drops it before her fingernails find purchase on her olive skin.

“You may have noticed I have a tendency to unconsciously claw at my scar when I’m anxious,” Hermione twists a small, rueful smile onto her lips. “Harry pushed me to see a therapist about it all… anyway, I know it’s not the same as what you experienced. But we _were_ very young.” She motions choppily for him to continue.

“A few weeks before – that night, Mother cornered me in Lucius’s study. Actually, she busted me breaking into his liquor cabinet. I had no scruples when it came to stealing my father’s booze – hadn’t I technically paid for it? Didn’t the bastard owe me a damned sight more than a few bottles of Ogden’s finest?”. Draco has to make a concerted effort to lower his voice. _Don’t frighten Hermione any more than you already have, you stupid prat._

In a gentler tone, he elucidates, “Mother didn’t mince her words: she told me I was an alcoholic, and I needed professional rehabilitation. She even produced literature to back her up – pamphlets from the Muggle clinic I ended up being admitted to. Apparently her magical-world research came up empty on how to treat full-blown alcoholic addiction issues; the Healers she’d discreetly consulted suggested a variety of powerful potions… which can be used only sparingly, as they in turn have addictive properties.”

Hermione’s pinched expression conveys her disdain for that ‘solution’.

“Mother told me I needed to address the reasons why I was binge-drinking myself into a stupor every night, not merely treat the physical aspect of the disorder. I wasn’t ready to hear the truth, though.” Draco swallows hard as he remembers the harsh insults he’d screamed at his parent.

“I was horrid to Narcissa – I shouted that had no business sticking her nose into mine, I accused her and Lucius of selling _my_ soul to the Dark Devil in order to save their own necks. Oh, I was appalling, Granger. My weakness was exposed, and I lashed out with every cruel insult and imputation I could think of. It’s a miracle Mother didn’t blast me with a ‘Silencio’, at the very least,” his ears redden as the remembered shame of his vicious verbal attack washes over him. 

“I went on a two-day binge the next day and returned home stinking drunk. Merlin only knows what I got up to before I literally rolled up against the front gates. Macdolas had to Apparate me inside. He never said a censorious word about the condition I was in… but those reproachful green eyes of his said plenty.”

Draco breaks the narrative to abruptly ask, “Would you like some water? Here, there’s a pitcher and glasses on the sideboard– ”. He busies himself with the mundane task, keeping his back to Hermione as he struggles to keep his wildly-fluctuating emotions in check. The soft affection and sadness emanating from his darling girlfriend is too much to bear. _She’s too kind-hearted for her own good – I need to get through the rest of this pathetic tale and… let her go._

Tossing back half a glass of cool water, Draco refills the tumbler before he returns to his seat, handing Hermione her drink. He waits for her to sip before he recommences his monologue.

“I apologize – this is dragging on a bit. I’ll attempt to be more succinct.”

Hermione shakes her head so furiously that her semi-loose tawny curls come dangerously close to whipping her in the face. “I want you to tell me everything that you’re comfortable sharing with me, Draco.” She places her hand back on his knee and squeezes gently. “Please, continue. Take your time.”

“Th-thank you, Hermione.” Draco takes another mouthful of water and rebuilds some of his Occlumency defences.

“Right. So I spitefully increased my boozing and carousing until I awoke in a private Muggle hospital room hooked up to an IV drip and innumerable beeping monitoring devices. Mother had taken me straight there once Rita advised her where I was holed up, and stayed by my bedside until I regained consciousness. She didn’t say anything at first; not until after the dispassionate Muggle specialist came in and told me I would have died from alcohol poisoning if I hadn’t been rushed into their emergency department the night before. Granger – please don’t cry, _ma_ \- please, don’t cry,” Draco entreats, hurriedly pushing his navy silk handkerchief into her hand as the silent tears continue to track down her cheeks.

“You and your ruddy hankies,” Hermione sniffles. “Keep talking, ignore the waterworks.” She scrubs violently at the tears wetting her face and nods impatiently.

“Well. After the doctor left, Mother brusquely informed me of what had happened to bring me here, and then told me I had two choices: I could continue on my merry way until alcoholism claimed my life (she mentioned I’d need to pick out the epitaph I preferred for my gravestone); or I could choose to enter Muggle rehab and work on my problems, however long that took. She said that she would always love me, and do her best to protect me – but as a young adult, I had to start taking responsibility for my choices and actions. Mother granted me the rest of the day to come to a final decision, and left me with all the literature she thought I could handle about alcoholism and its treatment options.’

“Hearing how close I’d come to dying on the floor of some dingy little room while an indifferent, venal stranger snapped pictures of my demise hit me hard, Granger. I didn’t want to die, but I felt trapped… useless… alone. And the craving for alcohol was – is – embedded inside me. I thought that getting drunk would soothe the monsters that rode me at night, but dipsomania swiftly became the bigger beast.” He risks turning his pewter eyes to her face.

“My stay in rehab… it was both an ordeal and an epiphany. I suppose you could say it was my own personal ‘quest’, in an odd way. For four months, I was ‘Jake Malloy’ – don’t laugh, it was Mother’s idea – and we explained away my utter ineptness at doing things the Muggle way by saying I was a bored rich heir who’d fallen in with a criminal gang (hence the tattoo). Not that far from the truth, when you think about it.” Draco manages something approximating a small grin, despite his heartsickness.

“I wasn’t laughing at you… well, maybe just a little,” Hermione’s dark amber eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles back at him. “’Jake Malloy’ just sounds so… _Muggley_ , I suppose.” She covers her mouth as a tiny giggle escapes. “I’m sorry – but I also want to call you that as a nickname, now,” she confesses.

“Let’s leave that well alone for the time being, please,” Draco chides, before he remembers the rest of what he has to say to her. His face resettles into bleakness.

“Anyway, rehab was gruelling, eye-opening, boring, frustrating, extraordinary, terrible, enlightening… and the making of me. I was responsible for myself in a way I never had been, before – from making my bed and cleaning my own toilet, to opening up and expressing my deepest fears and trauma in front of strangers, day in and day out. Drying out was fucking awful, but exposing my weaknesses to a host of therapists and other people who were fighting their own battles with addiction… it was terrifying, to be that vulnerable.’

“I refused to participate in the endless therapy sessions, initially – all that incessant talking about one’s problems was abhorrent to my haughty self. One-on-one and group cognitive behavioural therapy, the twelve-step facilitation method, meditation, yoga, art therapy… the last really helped me identify what gave me authentic joy, and purpose. But I didn’t fully embrace the whole process until I finally started listening to some of my fellow inpatients’ histories.”

Draco guzzles down more water as the memories flood his psyche. “Granger, their stories – I was horrified. Many of these people had been systematically abused and neglected since their early childhoods… physically, emotionally, sexually… used like disposable chattel by their parents, or partners who’d professed to love and care for them while doing the exact opposite, until the abuse became normalized. I finally realized what a spoiled, selfish little shit I’d been. I was blessed to have one parent who loved me unconditionally, and the means at my disposal to choose what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.”

“Malfoy, you shouldn’t downplay or diminish your own suffering and trials,” Hermione emphatically tells him. “You’re far too hard on yourself – and it never fails to infuriate me.”

Draco brushes aside her remonstration with a wave of his alabaster hand. “Granger, I was a pompous arse. It was past time I understood that lesson. I threw myself unreservedly into my rehabilitation, adopted some effective coping strategies and was eventually able to learn how to live with my addiction. I went straight to a small art school in Paris after I was discharged, and studied fine art techniques for a further six months. Came back to Britain, bought the townhouse, started painting full-time… you know the rest.”

He restively stands up, sick to the eye teeth of talking about himself. “Now you know my sordid tale – please accept my sincere apology for not telling you sooner, Granger. I feared your inevitable disgust, and disappointment. I thank you for the time we have had together. I will – I will always consider it to be the best time of my life… thank you,” Draco bows his head and fists his hands by his sides, his gorge rising as he imagines the utter barrenness of a future without Hermione.

_This is for the best – she deserves so much better than a broken Dark wizard with a monkey forever riding his back. She is the smartest person I’ve ever met – surely she can see that being with me will only bring her grief and widespread condemnation?_

Though he expects Hermione’s pity and counter-arguments, he is shocked by her actual reaction.

“What the fuck does that mean, Draco Lucius Malfoy?!?” Hermione bolts to her feet and grabs the lapels of his navy silk jacket, wrenching him toward her; he automatically steadies them both by sliding his hands to her hips. Touching her thrills him to his core, as usual – _No. No. Let. Her. Go._ Draco’s resolve is not helped by Hermione shaking him like a terrier with a rat.

“ _’I thank you for the time we’ve had together’_? What, you think one outrageously libellious newspaper article and finding out that you’re not perfect – spoiler alert, I already knew that! – is going to somehow make me leave you?!? You’re not that fucking stupid, surely?” she snarls. Her luxuriant sienna hair is fritzing with tiny angry sparkles as her magic materializes.

“Granger, please calm down – your hair– ” Draco winces as a stray hot spark lands on his cheek. Hermione flicks it away before it can burn his skin.

“Not once – in the entire history of humanity – has anyone ever calmed down after being told to calm down! And don’t change the subject – I want you to understand how enraged I am, that you would think so little of me as to expect me to end our relationship over this tiny bump!” Hermione shouts.

A wide-eyed Draco stutters, “A tiny b–bump? Granger, I’m an alcoholic, disgraced Death Eater whose sleazy past has just been exposed to the entire Wizarding community! You were receiving daily Howlers for dating me before all this blew up – what do you think is going to happen to your noble reputation now? The vast majority of our society will tear you to pieces if you stay aligned with me – I won’t allow it. I shan’t let you throw away your brilliant future on the likes of me,” he vows, jaw clicking with tension.

Another vigorous shake. “You shan’t tell _me_ what to do! You are my ‘brilliant future’, you big blond galoot! I cannot stress this to you strongly enough – whatever other people think of me is none of my business. Malfoy, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You had a problem, you sought help, you became a better person because of it. I am so unbelievably proud of you, my darling.” Hermione is crying again, and the sight has him immediately wiping beneath her eyes with gentle hands.

“The fact that you were strong enough – brave enough – to turn your back on years of inculcation about blood racism, Pureblood elitism, all that utter shite about being born to privilege and perfectionism and lording it over the hoi polloi – and that you courageously faced down your demons, and got them under control for over three years – and that you managed to learn how to do that as ‘Muggle’ Jake Malloy! – well, you’re an absolute champion, and I hold you in the highest possible regard.”

Hermione gropes about for his loaned handkerchief before she continues, “And don’t you dare try to tell me that you’re ‘damaged’ or ‘cursed’, or any of that morose guff. We’re all ‘damaged’ in our own ways, Malfoy. Nobody gets through life without trauma leaving its mark on them. Each of us have shadows in our past.” She ceases shaking him at last, instead slipping her hands down to his and lacing their fingers together as she smiles tremulously.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I am not going to let you go now… and especially not because of your misguided idea that you need to protect me from scandal and opprobrium.” She hesitates before she suggests, “Do you think that perhaps you’re still affected by your family’s pervasive obsession with protecting its good name, Malfoy? You know that issues surrounding addiction are more openly discussed and accepted in the Muggle world, right?”.

“I can’t countenance you being sullied by this, Hermione,” Draco woodenly replies. Stepping back from her embrace feels like one of the hardest things he’s ever done. “I expected some initial resistance – you are fiercely loyal – but you don’t seem to understand how my presence in your life negatively affects you.”

“Oh, bollocks – pull your platinum head out of your arse and listen to what I am saying, please. I don’t care about any of that. I realize it’s still early days, and I don’t wish to scare you off – but I want you to know that the only future I envisage is one where you’re firmly by my side. Please – please! – don’t push me away. We’re stronger together, and I’m not going anywhere.” Hermione’s face is set in the stubborn lines that Draco both adores and dreads.

He baldly utters the sentence that he _knows_ will drive her away.

“Granger – I don’t want children.” Draco pretends an interest in the tips of his shiny black Oxfords as Hermione stills.

“I can’t risk passing my affliction onto any innocent babies – and the wicked Malfoy line deserves to die out with me,” he pronounces tonelessly. He tugs his nerveless hands from her clasp.

“You’re lying.” Hermione states, after an infinitesimal pause. She scrabbles for his fingers again, but he resists, his heart panging.

“Children who have one parent who struggles with alcohol use disorder inherit a three to four times increased risk of becoming an alcoholic themselves; there’s a known statistical link to genetic disposition. I won’t chance it. I know that you want children, someday… best you find a man worthy to sire them.” Draco clamps his teeth and attempts to project an air of resoluteness.

“You don’t know that – because we haven’t discussed it, yet. And ‘genetic predisposition’ does not guarantee our children developing the same disorder, Malfoy. I know what you’re trying to do, and I won’t have it.” Hermione doggedly retorts.

 _‘Our children’._ Draco’s brain is inundated with images of chubby curly-haired brunette babies with inquisitive chocolate eyes and bewitching little smiles. _I hope they look like Hermione… No._ He ruthlessly sets his pipe dream aside.

Shrugging with as much nonchalance as he can muster, Draco drawls, “So now we’ve discussed it; no kidlets for me. Why do you think I’m so vigilant about casting the contraceptive charms? By-blows are not part of my future, Granger.” He bites the inside of his cheeks as Hermione flinches at his casual disdain.

“Faux flippancy does not become you, Draco. I saw your frank wistfulness when I mentioned our future offspring: you want them just as much as I do,” Hermione breathes. “Won’t you stop this foolishness, please? We’re a team now, and I am here to support you, just as much as you do me.” She tugs at his jacket sleeve, her troubled eyes roving across his stoic mien.

“Come back to the dining room with me, and let’s discuss all this with your parents,” Hermione presses. “We all need to clear the air, if we’re to move forward. ‘United we stand, divided we fall’, right?”.

Draco scoffs, deliberately folding his mouth into a mean line before he sneers, “Are you seriously suggesting you are willing to be in league with _Lucius Malfoy_? The Dark Wizard who treated you like dirt beneath his shoes? The elitist bully who systematically attempted to strip you of all your magical rights and tried to hand you over to Voldemort as though you were a tasty apple to gift to a stern teacher? You must be joking.”

“He’s still your father, Draco. He cares for you, in his own warped way. And you care for him,” Hermione quietly responds. “I don’t entirely trust him – and why on earth did he bring that damned newspaper into dinner with him? – but his apology did sound genuine. As I said earlier, he deserves one chance with me.”

 _Earlier. That was surely a lifetime ago, not a few hours._ _I wish I’d put down my foot and nixed our attendance at this fucking disastrous dinner part_ y, Draco thinks dourly. _But that appalling article would have still blown up on us like a volatile Erumpent Horn._

“No. I require some time alone – and you need to attain some distance from our situation. I fear I’ve smothered you these past few weeks, Granger. I’ve wrapped you up in a sound-damping little bubble that has caused you to lose all perspective. I’ll ensure Macdolas sees you safely ho– to the townhouse, that is. I’m staying here.”

His determination to remain impassive almost dissolves completely as Hermione’s beautiful face crumples in shock and hurt. “Are you – are you breaking up with me, Draco?” her voice is wounded and thready.

 _This is it. This is your opportunity to release her from the shackles of your disgrace_. Opening his mouth to confirm her query, Draco is disgusted in his self-serving weakness as he croaks, “No. But you should. Break up with me.”

It is downright astounding how quickly his little lioness shifts from miserable to cantankerous. Hermione scowls and juts out her chin as she crossly declares, “Malfoy – that isn’t ever going to happen, you gorgeous, boneheaded, soft-centred, wannabe martyr! ‘You’re stuck with me now’ – do you remember, you said those exact words to me, that first morning when you made me breakfast? It’s come full circle, _mon coeur_.”

She looks grimly satisfied by his startled reaction to her use of the foreign phrase. “Yes – I’m learning French, with Mac. He wants to romance Ruibby with some choice endearments, and I am resolved to understand exactly what all your sweet nothings really mean.”

 _Wait, what? Dragon’s balls, has Macdolas been eavesdropping on our… intimate moments, somehow?_ The thought makes Draco cringe.

“No, Mac would never spy on us! But he hears you calling me ‘ _ma petite_ ’ all the time (with swoon-worthy results, I might add) and you are his primary role model, so of course he’s going to try to emulate you,” Hermione correctly interprets Draco’s alarmed expression.

Folding her arms atop each other, Hermione huffs and exasperated sigh as she announces, “I’ll permit you a day or two apart from me, since you’re obviously insistent on wallowing in self-pity like a pig in mud – but you can’t be rid of me that easily. You’re going to miss me like crazy, which will serve to underline how right I am that we belong together. Get some perspective, organize some therapy of your own, talk to your parents, and decide how best to celebrate our eventual reunion. I’ll expect you home before the Ball, Malfoy. _Capisce_?”

Draco nods dumbly as Hermione smiles artlessly at him. Her espresso eyes remain damp and a little woebegone, but her characteristic Gryffindor spirit has definitely rallied.

“Hermione – I’m sorry – I never meant to hurt you– ” his voice hitches as he knuckles at his own moist eyes.

Hermione’s small hand glides across his jaw, her fingers splaying across his cheek as she shuffles closer. “We’re going to hurt each other occasionally – that’s just human nature – but we’ll always be OK if we talk about it, and help each other through the harder times. Look at me, Draco. _We’ve got this_. Now kiss me, please, before you accompany me back into that super awkward dinner party and we all plot the downfall of the Daily Prophet.”

Draco ignores his nasty inner voice as it gloomily predicts he’s making a colossal mistake. He wraps his arms around Hermione tightly and gladly complies with her directive, imbuing his kiss with every scrap of devotion, gratitude, and sheer amazement at how bloody lucky he is to have her. She returns his passionate smooch, her hands moving to compulsively glide across his strong back and shoulders as kissing technique is tossed aside in favour of raw, ragged need.

Breaking apart only when their mutual need for oxygen becomes desperate, Draco murmurs huskily, “Are you aware that you’re the cleverest, most compassionate, sweetest and prettiest woman in the world?”. He gazes at her in wonderment.

“Well, it never hurts to be told that by my favourite silly wizard, does it?” Hermione winks. “Come on, Malfoy. Lets’ return to the dining room – ‘Lucy’s got some ‘splainin’ to do!’” she quips.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Granger,” a bewildered Draco lets her tow him from the library, quietly relishing the immediate comfort and _rightness_ of her hand resting in his. “Is that how you intend to address my father, now? I don’t think he’ll care for it,” he ventures to opine.

Hermione laughs properly. “’Jake Malloy’ still has some rather large gaps in his pop culture education, it seems.” She pats his arm tenderly. “Wait until Blaise hears of your Muggle alter-ego… ooh, and Harry is going to love it…” she teases.

 _You cheeky, adorable little witch_. Draco lets his witch have her fun at his expense. Anything to wipe the last vestiges of sorrow from her enchanting cinnamon eyes.

_Maybe… just maybe… we can find our way through all this._

_Together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @AnorAk for kindly allowing me to use the term 'silly wizard'; this seemed the perfect time to use it 😁.
> 
> I had envisioned something quite different happening in this chapter... but then Draco began talking and Hermione started reassuring him... etc. And maybe I have a softer heart than I thought.
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who's still reading, forty chapters later. I appreciate each and every one of you.
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying it as much as I am.  
> 💗😊💗 VJ


	41. Camaraderie

__

_Friday 14 March 2003: PM_

Nearing the ajar door of the Manor’s dining room, Hermione stops short of entering as Lady Malfoy’s refined tones resound into the corridor. Placing a steadying hand on Draco’s muscular chest as he halts beside her, they exchange a wide-eyed look of surprise as his mother roundly (and loudly) upbraids her husband.

“ –what did you think would happen, Lucius? You tore through that door as though you were being chased by an eminence of angry centaurs, carrying that vile publication… and then proceeded to drop it squarely at the feet of our son!”

“Narcissa – my dearest heart, I beg you to listen to me– ” Lucius whines.

“And you have the gall to sit there and claim it was not your intent to expose and upset our boy! For the love of serpents, why did you not leave it in your study? Were you hoping to humiliate Draco in front of Hermione? Oh, Lucius!” Narcissa’s tongue-lashing ends on a half-sob.

 _Time to take a leaf out of the Malfoys’ playbook and make a dramatic entrance._ Hermione sweeps into the chamber with her head held high. Her peripheral vision notes Macdolas and Ruibby guiltily springing apart from their clinch in the darkened right-hand corner of the room; she resolutely sets aside that startling vision as she authoritatively announces, “We’d all like to know the answer to that question, Lucius: exactly what _were_ you hoping to achieve with your little theatrics? Because if you were scheming to oust me from Draco’s life, you have failed – spectacularly.”

Holding Draco’s right hand aloft in her left as though she’s declaring the winner of a boxing match, Hermione glares at her old enemy and lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”.

“I don’t recall giving you leave to use my Christian name, Ms Granger,” Lucius sullenly mutters, his posture ramrod straight as he leans on his sinister snake-headed cane, standing at the head of the table.

“Lucius!” Narcissa interjects, as Draco growls softly.

Hermione merely chuckles sardonically. “Come, Lucy – we’re well past all those petty formalities, surely?”. She ignores his horrified gasp at the impudent sobriquet, winking at Draco as she continues, “I am delighted to inform you that – despite your worst efforts – I am just as committed to my relationship with Draco as I was before you pulled your little stunt.”

“I didn’t sodding well mean to throw in the cat amongst the pixies! I panicked – is that so difficult for you all to understand?” the former Lord Malfoy aggrievedly protests. “Must my every thoughtless action be attributed malicious intent?”.

“I hope that was asked ironically,” Hermione incredulously retorts.

Draco sighs, returning their joined hands to a less combative position at their sides as he addresses his sulky father. “Lucius – is that really all it was? A panicked moment of imprudence?”.

“Yes. I will admit to feeling somewhat… flustered. I had thought this issue buried, when your mother struck a deal with that conniving Skeeter woman; seeing that confronting photograph, and the accompanying article – it was a shock.” Lucius visibly droops as he divulges, “My guilt over the whole dreadful affair has not abated, Draco. It was at my urging that you began drinking at night to ease your terrors; and I failed to admit the seriousness of your problem, until it was almost too late.”

He raises his elegiac shark-grey eyes to look at his son. “I am sorry, Draco. And Ms Granger… I did not consciously intend to disrupt our party; I was discombobulated at seeing the Malfoy name dragged through the mud yet again.”

Hermione scrutinizes Lucius keenly, wary of his ready capitulation. “Since you have raised the issue: Draco has nothing to be ashamed of. He should be commended and admired for possessing the courage and strength of character to address his problems – not vilified for it. It’s well past time your family relinquished this unhealthy obsession with keeping up appearances, and protecting the Malfoy name at all costs,” she lectures.

Narcissa crosses her arms and nods emphatically. “I second your opinion, Hermione. Lucius needs to relax his stubborn grip on moth-eaten tradition and elitist idiocies and recognize that Draco has bravely redeemed himself _and_ the dubious Malfoy lineage.” She turns an eagle eye on her bewildered son, stepping forward to cradle his pointed chin with her palm. “Come, Draco – have I not told you a thousand times how proud I am of you? And that you should hold your head high and ignore the naysayers? Let the little people hate – _J'en ai plus rien à foutre!_ ”.

“Narcissa – language!” Pale eyebrows hiked almost to his brow line, Lucius looks as though he’s found a hair in his bouillabaisse. Draco chokes on a laugh.

“I don’t think Mac and I have yet covered that particular phrase,” Hermione drolly observes.

Wholly ignoring her scandalized husband, Narcissa gives Draco’s cheek a last loving pat and smiles at him through damp azure eyes. “ _Mon fils_ , I am upset _for_ you, not because of you; and knowing you as I do, you internalized the shock and pain and tried to push away Hermione, hmmm? Silly boy. She will always share her strength with you, just as you would die to protect her.”

“I will,” Hermione nods fervently, as Draco gulps before bringing his girlfriend’s small fingers to his lips and pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. His slate eyes never leave her face as he echoes her avid nod.

Lucius interrupts their tender moment as he grumbles, “I assure you all – I am no longer possessed of an overweening compulsion to promote and protect our… warped Pureblood ideals and status… becoming a convicted War criminal does have the inescapable effect of resetting one’s philosophy. I am well aware that I am a pariah, a joke. My pride and vanity brought about our family’s greatest disgrace, and I shall never forgive myself for it.” His scrawny shoulders hunch as his thin mouth droops and his gaze dims.

 _Well, the broody blond apple didn’t fall far from this tree, did it?_ Hermione sternly instructs her soft heart to listen to her sceptical brain and take Lucius’s pathos with a healthy grain of salt.

“I digress. Draco, I am not mortified by your struggles; I am disgusted with myself, that I subjected my beloved family to trauma, terror, and censure. I share your mother’s sentiments… I–I am proud of you, son.” He briefly lifts his dull ashen eyes off the fine white tablecloth to meet Draco’s wary glance.

After a pregnant pause, Draco inclines his head minutely. “Thank you… Father.”

Silence stretches around the table, until Macdolas provides a welcome distraction. “Macdolas commends the Family of Malfoy for standing together in their times of trouble and asks on behalf of his darlingest Ruibby if they are ready for the Gruyère cheese gougères? The savoury puffs grow cold,” he declares, with a hint of mild rebuke.

“Always thinking of food, aren’t you, scamp?” Draco states, his lips quirking at the corners.

The Scottish steward takes the bait immediately. “Macdolas’s girlfriend – the most efficient, organized, accomplished, punctilious, exacting, thrifty, wise and pulchritudinous– ”

“Salazar’s sins! Has he swallowed a thesaurus?” Lucius snipes.

Mac doesn’t miss a beat. “–Ruibby, she labours long and hard over the exquisite menu presented tonight, Master Malfoy! Let not Ruibby’s professionalism and perfectionism be in vain!” he shrills.

Hermione gently advises, “Mac, Ruibby – I’m sorry, but I think our appetites may have fled for the evening, given the emotional strain we’ve experienced.” The little sprite’s face falls, while Ruibby looks flushed and pettish at the news.

“Darlings, why don’t you busy yourselves packing up half of all the courses for Hermione and Draco to take home, instead?” Narcissa’s dulcet tones suggest. “Lucius and I can dine tête à tête a little later, perhaps.”

Ruibby sniffs her assent, while Macdolas looks resigned but amenable as he confidently lays his midget inamorata’s capable little hand upon his arm and practically whisks her out of the room.

Apparently, Lucius’s recent humility doesn’t re-colour all aspects of his haughty personality, as he huffs, “The staff are becoming increasingly impertinent – though I see you all prefer to humour their effrontery, rather than correct it.”

Before Hermione can rip into the sneering patriarch for his snobbishness, Draco speaks up.

“Macdolas saved Hermione’s life, Lucius – I’d hand him the keys to the Manor this very moment, if I thought he would accept them. He and Ruibby may run the household in whichever manner they see fit, as far as I am concerned. We are blessed to count them as part of our family.” He smiles grimly as Lucius purses his lips but holds his tongue.

“Without our hard-working (and until recently, grossly under-valued) house elves, this ancestral pile would have crumbled to ruins many generations ago, Lucius; mayhap it is a shame it never came to that,” Narcissa adds her two Knut’s worth to Draco’s defence of the elven pair. “Do close your mouth, husband, lest you catch flies in your gaping maw.”

“Now, dears – I’m grieved that our pleasant evening has not eventuated; quite the opposite, isn’t it?” Narcissa appears drawn and slightly fragile as she gestures at the elaborate, untouched table setting. “I’m sorry, I’ve been a poor hostess.” The stately older witch rubs briefly at her temples.

Hermione doesn’t think twice about moving closer to give the fretting matriarch a brief, comforting hug. “Not at all – and I think we should have a quick private chat about how best to… um, rebalance that particular ledger, Narcissa.” She significantly tips her brunette head toward the abominable edition of the Evening Prophet that still lies atop the table.

“Oh! Yes… indeed we should, Hermione. Walk with me to the kitchens? We’ll be back soon, gentlemen.” Narcissa recovers her poise and tucks her arm into Hermione’s; the two witches begin to compare revenge stratagems once they are out of hearing range.

 _Who would have ever predicted that one day I would be colluding with Lady Narcissa Malfoy to defend her son’s honour?_ Hermione almost chortles aloud at the fantastical turns her life has taken over the past few months.

_And despite the continuing drama of roofie conspiracy hovering over us; I would not change a thing. For it brought me to Draco’s door – and I cannot imagine a life without him firmly fixed at its centre._

She bends her head solicitously as they walk briskly down the grand hallway.

* * *

“You promise, Granger? You won’t go anywhere – _anywhere_ – without taking Macdolas with you? Work, therapy, the grocery store?” Draco urges, for only the third time in as many minutes.

Hermione somehow resists emitting an exasperated sigh as she reassures him, “I promise, Malfoy. I won’t take any chances. Besides, what need have I for the grocery store, considering how thoroughly Macdolas attends to our every whim? Please, try not to worry – I’ll be fine.” _Missing you like crazy, of course…_ she thinks, but does not voice.

Draco peers down at her anxiously nonetheless, as his lean hands slide to the small of her back. They are standing before the huge Floo fireplace in the ornate ‘Belle Époque’ parlour.

 _You know you’re hobnobbing with the elite when they name their rooms_ , Hermione sniggers to herself. She imagines her father’s undoubtedly disparaging reaction to the practice… of course, if she and Draco continue to – well, date, for want of a better term – Bernard Granger may well be invited here himself. Her small, amused smile deepens.

“I’m not smiling about your insistence on proper safeguards – just thinking about my dad potentially riffing about the décor here,” Hermione explains as Draco’s brows draw together in puzzlement. “He does have an incurable case of foot-in-mouth disease.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Draco smiles back. His expression shifts to seriousness again as he rests his forehead against hers. Their skin-to-skin contact seriously tests her resolve to spend a few days apart. _No. No. This brief separation will serve to gain some clarity about our personal and communal tribulations. Be strong and trust that Draco will come back to you._ Hermione wills away a traitorous tear at the thought of sleeping in the big bed without her gorgeous blond lover. 

A movement to her left catches her eye; Macdolas and Ruibby are ‘saying’ their own goodbyes. _Yikes_.

“Don’t look at them directly: you’ll lie awake for hours with some truly disturbing imagery running through your stricken psyche,” Draco murmurs against her ear.

“Malfoy! They’re cute as a button, and you know it… although, I could do without seeing their… erm, more adult behaviours,” Hermione admits as she returns her eyes to his disgruntled grey gaze. “If I have trouble achieving slumber tonight… it will be because I can’t sleep without my strong, sexy boyfriend cuddling me, anyway.”

“Merlin – you’re not making this any easier by saying things like that, Granger,” Draco complains, as he tunnels his fingers into her lower scalp while dropping tiny pecks to her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

He leans away from her a little, hesitating before he slowly enunciates, “I can’t bear the thought of being away from you… but I know I need to work on my issues. I think – I think I am struggling with this public ignominy now because during my previous therapy, I never addressed my desire to – to be worthy of you, to be an equal partner in a relationship… I never thought I stood a chance. With you. Ah, fuck – I am all over the place, I mean to say that– ”

Placing a gentle finger to Draco’s lips, Hermione beams up at her unusually inarticulate lover. “It’s OK. I get it. I do. I support you and I am here for you, but addressing your low self-esteem is something you have to work on for yourself.” She bites her lip before slowly continuing, “Draco… I want you to see yourself – truly _see_ yourself – as I see you. I want you to know, to feel that you are my equal (my better, really) in the marrow of your bones. You deserve that, _mon coeur_. Not for me – for you.”

She gurgles a small laugh before she playfully adds, “I do expect a thorough, extremely _French_ ravishment when you return home, though - _si tu vois ce que je veux dire?_ ”.

“ _Oh oui - tu comprends, ma petite tentatrice sexy_ ,” Draco enthusiastically replies, his carbonite eyes gleaming. “Trust me – you will have no complaints.”

His mobile mouth descends; Hermione expects him to slant his lips across hers again, but he directs his kisses to her neck and jawline, nibbling sensually until she gasps in pleasure. Turning her face, she engages Draco in a torrid smooch, licking at the outline of his lips before twining their tongues together deeply. She infuses as much of her complicated emotions into their embrace as she can: relief, joy, sadness, hope, and of course the barely-banked lust that has been her constant companion since she awoke in Draco’s big white bed a mere month ago.

They break apart reluctantly, moving seamlessly into a tight hug. Head tucked against his heart, Hermione reluctantly whispers, “Malfoy… I have to go, before I forget my resolve and drag you back home with me.”

“I know,” Draco sounds equally disinclined to detach himself from her person. “Hermione, I–I will miss you, _ma petite_ … will you write to me, please? Just a little note here and there? If– if you feel thusly inclined, of course,” he timorously requests. He appears shy and uncertain, glancing at her from beneath his platinum fringe.

“I will,” Hermione quickly concurs. “ She blinks as her eyes fill with unshed tears. “Would you – would you write back to me, please? I–I love your letters, Draco. I cherish them.” _As I do you._

Vigorously nodding, Draco cups her elbow to guide her into the Floo; Hermione pinches a measure of green powder before stepping onto the wide flagstones of the great hearth.

“Macdolas – time to go. Come on, leave your petite paramour alone – don’t make me repeat myself, please.” Draco grouses beneath his breath, “Don’t be too soft on him, Granger – he knows exactly how to twist you around his gnarly little finger.”

“Soft? Oh, do you mean like how you recently professed that you’d cheerily sign over this stately mansion to your elfish major-domo?” Hermione snickers. “I’ll be as hard as nails, never fear.”

Draco bequeaths a final, soft-as-silk kiss to her trembling mouth before he steps back, his hand sliding slowly from hers. His red-rimmed eyes never leave hers as he instructs the house elf who now stands beside her.

“Macdolas, I am entrusting you with Hermione’s continued safety; I know you won’t let me down. Any problems, please advise me immediately. And no weaponry ‘accessories’, alright? You’ll only do yourself a mischief, and you’re a mighty powerful sorcerer without them, in any case.”

The puckish urchin’s initial dejected reaction to Draco’s anti-weapons caution swiftly changes to a proud blush as he pops out his scrimpy chest at the compliment. “Macdolas thanks Master Malfoy for his benevolent acclaim – Macdolas promises no harm shall come to Her Grace Lady Granger whilst under Macdolas’s fierce guardianship! Macdolas eliminates nefarious assailants without a moment’s hesitation!” 

“Easy, tiger,” Hermione pats his quivering arm. “We’ll be fine, Draco. _Au revoir, mon coeur_.”

“ _Au revoir_ , _ma petite_ Hermione.”

Hermione allows herself one last glimpse of Draco’s beautiful face and his melancholic mien before she shuts her eyes and prepares to Floo to the townhouse. **_Be safe, my darling wizard. Come back to me._**

* * *

Hermione’s first indication that there is something unusual happening in the lounge room of the townhouse is Macdolas stiffening and pushing her behind him as she prepares to step out of the Floo.

The bristling little elf relaxes in a matter of milliseconds as he proclaims, “Her Grace Lady Granger has a cackle of wizards and witches visiting the Townhouse of Malfoy!”. Macdolas begins to suck in a huge breath (no doubt required to rattle off an extensive list of honorific titles); Hermione steps out joyfully before he can get swept away on his embellishing tangent.

“Hermione!” the chorus of voices drowns out whatever Macdolas was about to announce.

 _Was there a party planned that no one bothered to invite me to?_ Hermione wonders in bemusement. The living area is almost filled to capacity: Harry, Luna, Pansy, Theo and Blaise are seated on the powder-blue sofa and retro armchairs, and appear to have helped themselves to crackers, olives and a selection of gourmet cheeses arrayed on the coffee table.

“Guys – what’re you all doing here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you,” she pauses to return Harry’s side-hug, “…but did I miss two or five owls, somewhere along the line?”.

Blaise strolls forward, his merry dark eyes unusually subdued. “Theo, Pansy and I came as soon as we read that odious article in the Evening Prophet; turns out Harry and Luna shared our concerns.” He frowns as he squints into the unlit fireplace. “Where’s your snarky bleached-blond beau at, anyway?”.

“Draco’s staying at the Manor for a few days,” Hermione quietly responds. “We were at the Manor to have dinner with Narcissa and Lucius when – when the story broke.”

“Wait – the dumb bastard hasn’t dumped you, has he?” an outraged Pansy bolts up from her middle seat on the lounge, chin jutting pugnaciously as she hurries to stand in front of Hermione.

Luna pipes up. “He tried – but Hermione wouldn’t let him, of course.” Her dreamy crystal blue eyes crinkle at the corners as her lips form a Mona Lisa smile.

Harry decides to play at protective big brother. “Is that true, love? Malfoy wanted to break up with you?” he rasps.

 _Merlin’s pants!_ Hermione forces herself to exhale, long and deep. “OK: before you go flying off the handle, let me explain what happened tonight, please.”  
  


She grabs a scowling Pansy by the hand and tows her back to the couch, taking Pansy’s middle spot while Pansy smugly moves into Blaise’s previous position. The tall Slytherin perches on the wide arm of the lowline couch without comment, while Harry sits back in his armchair. Theo turns his gangly legs slightly, the better to see Hermione’s face as she begins her narrative. Luna hitches her own armchair a few inches closer, giving a tiny, encouraging nod.

“We’d just sat down at table with Narcissa when Lucius came flying through the door…” Hermione launches into the account of their fraught evening, attempting to keep the tale as concise and clear as possible. She decides to omit that Draco’s Muggle alias is ‘Jake Malloy’; it might be best to save that gold humour nugget for a less grave opportunity.

Hermione’s voice only wobbles a few times, when she describes Narcissa’s mini-intervention in the Muggle hospital after Draco awoke from his near-fatal drinking binge; and Draco’s self-sacrificing effort to misguidedly push her away for the sake of salvaging her reputation.

“But Draco never stood a chance against my superior arguments and debating skills, of course,” Hermione states decisively.

“More like sheer bullheadedness,” she thinks she hears Harry mumble, as Blaise turns a spontaneous laugh into a fake cough.

Glaring at the bespectacled Auror, Hermione turns up her straight little nose as she concludes, “Draco and I have agreed to spend a little time apart, for both our sakes… he needs to come to terms with the fact he’s not the ‘debauched disgrace’ that he has considered himself to be for so long, and also work on his relationship with his parents. And he was insistent that I ‘gain some distance from our situation’ – so here I am.’

“Well, here _we_ are,” she amends, nodding to where Macdolas stands. He is scrutinizing the scrounged spread of snacks haphazardly arranged atop the coffee table, wearing a sourly disapproving expression. The fancy containers of packed-up dinner party food are stacked by his tapping boots.

“I have promised Draco to venture nowhere without Macdolas by my side, so you shan’t worry I’ll be endangered or lonely here, while my darl– while Draco’s away.”

“Thank Salazar.” Theo’s heartfelt expostulation beside her makes Hermione startle; he apologizes immediately.

“I’m sorry, Hermione – but you didn’t see Draco raging about St Mungo’s, when he first arrived. And I’ve no wish for another ‘light choking’ from a maddened Lord Malfoy, should I be found negligent in the bodyguard stakes again,” Theo spells out with a remorseful laugh. “He had a point – Blaise and I should have stuck around the courtrooms, regardless of your steadfast refusal.”

“No, I was wrong that day – multiple times. Oh, go on, Harry, note it in your diary, if you must,” Hermione sighs, as Harry mimes licking a pencil and scribbling down imaginary notes in an illusory journal.

“Leave it out, Potter. We’ve established that Hermione made a rare boo-boo – big deal,” Pansy crisply inserts herself into the conversation. “Now, Hermione: are you certain we don’t need to run a posse around to the Manor and smack some sense into your daft ‘darling’?”. She smirks as Hermione colours pink and drops her eyes to her lap.

“Yes, we all know you two are so far gone on each other, you’re in a different galaxy; there’s no need to pretend otherwise,” Pansy laughs.

“Pansy, space travel is not yet a developed skill of the Wizarding world, though Father believes we may yet see the carefully controlled utilization of the Seraka Neonporter Wormhole, allowing Earthlings to access our neighbouring star systems with comparative ease,” Luna imparts, as everyone falls silent.

Blaise rallies first. “Luna – my favourite little Ravenclaw – the depth and breadth of your astonishing intellect never fails to amaze me. Do please ask Xenophilius to inform me as soon as the Seraka Neonporter Wormhole is up and running; I’ve always had a yen to circulate my myriad talents as far and wide in the universe as possible,” he grins.

Had Zabini spoken with the faintest trace of mockery or scorn, Hermione would have had no compunction in blasting him six ways to Sunday; but his tone is sincere and his eyes gentle as they rest on Luna’s delicate features.

“I’m the only Ravenclaw you’re friendly with, Blaise – naturally, I am your favourite,” Luna pertly rejoins, eyes sparkling.

“Hush, Blaise, the grown-ups are talking,” Pansy rudely shuts him down. “Look, do we still have to pummel Draco into seeing some sense, or what? You didn’t answer my earlier query, Hermione.”

“You’re quite the bloodthirsty Snake, huh, Parkinson? Don’t tell me you’re still carrying a torch for Malfoy?” Harry baits the stylish brunette.

“As if, Lightning Bolt… unlike some people, I’ve moved on from my first crush,” Pansy scoffs as Theo and Blaise snort with amusement at her cutting jab.

Even Hermione has to smother a smile as Harry sputters, “That’s untrue, Pansy – and–and – my affairs of the heart are not any of your business!”.

“Pfft – and who says, ‘affairs of the heart’? Some sad old dude who needs to move on, that’s who,” Pansy jeers.

 _Oh, dear. Harry is being rather foolish, thinking he can lock horns with Pansy and not get gored. This impromptu gathering is getting out of control at a rapid rate,_ Hermione worries.

“Guys, please – can we focus on why you’re here? No, Pansy – Draco and I are solid. I forbid you – any of you – from laying a finger on Draco, is that understood? Or you’ll answer to me.” Hermione shares her severe glare equally between Harry, Blaise, and Pansy. She knows that neither Theo nor Luna have the slightest intention of roughing up Draco, but these three…

“Hey, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Blaise holds out his hands, while Harry nods moodily and Pansy clicks her tongue in a non-committal fashion.

“First: do any of you believe that Draco should be ashamed of his struggles with alcoholism?”. The resounding chorus of negatives ease Hermione’s mild anxiety that Draco’s friends may yet judge his past.

“Excellent. I think if you were to tell him that yourselves, it would go a long way towards helping Draco heal,” Hermione wrings her hands as her heart squeezes in sympathy for her swain.

“He’s borne this burden alone for too long; I’d appreciate your help in making him see… see how phenomenal he is. How loyal, and unselfish, and courageous, and– ” Hermione chokes as her emotions bubble over. Pansy drapes her arm around Hermione’s bent neck in an awkward loose headlock, while Luna somehow wedges her slender body between the now-crying witch and Theo, wrapping Hermione in a tender hug.

“We’re here for you both, Hermione,” Luna calmly assures.

Pansy gruffly avers, “You’d better believe it, Golden Girl. No, Blaise – don’t you dare, this is not a ‘group hug’ – piss off, ” she warns a sheepish-faced Zabini, who instantly backs away from the women.

“I’m sorry – it’s been an emotional evening,” Hermione howls.

“It’s alright, Hermione – we understand,” Theo softly contributes. “I just wish Draco had told us what he was going through, back in ’99… we wouldn’t have kept throwing temptation in his path, had we realized what he was suffering through.”

“Hell – even I feel bad for Malfoy,” Harry confesses. “Having Voldemort in my head during random episodes was bad enough; I suppose I never gave much consideration to how difficult it must have been to actually share the same roof as the crazy demon for months on end… and somehow stay sane.”

“Draco’s control has always been legendary,” Blaise’s voice is sober and sad. “I used to envy him for that – oh, don’t look so disbelieving, Pansy. Even I’m aware that my ‘more-ness’ can get a bit sloppy sometimes... I mean, it’s rare – but it happens. Anyway, I feel stupid and selfish for not realizing how tormented Draco was, back then. Too busy getting my kicks wherever I could find them, I guess.”

“No one can ever achieve self-realization until he’s ready and willing to see and accept it; your love has provided Draco with the courage to experience this epiphany of his true self-worth, Hermione,” Luna affirms, continuing to pat Hermione’s back as her sobs dwindle. “I’m glad he’s finally at that point. He’ll come back from this stronger and wiser – you’ll see.”

“Luna… did you know about this? About… about Draco’s addiction, and rehabilitation? That was what you were alluding to yesterday, wasn’t it?” Hermione snuffles, as she carefully straightens and wipes her swollen eyes with the navy handkerchief.

“Draco confided in me when he returned from Paris. He knew I could be trusted to keep his secret. I’m sorry that it was revealed in such a horrible fashion, but it has festered long enough,” Luna nods. “Nobody who matters will think any less of Draco for it. And if they do, they won’t matter to us anymore.”

 _Oh, Luna – bless your angel heart._ Hermione bestows a grateful smile on her one-in-a-million blonde friend.

“Hermione – I have some information I need to share with you,” Harry sounds uneasy. “It pertains to Operation Acromantula.”

“OK…” Hermione takes a deep breath, surreptitiously crossing her fingers. Pansy and Luna’s limbs return to their sides as everyone stares at the sombre-faced young Auror.

“We went back to Flint’s home this morning – and we found a few scraps of burned parchment in his fireplace. Our forensics team are still working on deciphering and reconfiguring the oddments of words we retrieved, but we’ve already found a link between Flint, and the freelance Prophet reporter who cobbled up this hatchet job on Malfoy.”

“I thought Rita Skeeter wrote the exposé?” Blaise interrupts. “Wasn’t her name on the by-line?”

Harry shakes his head. “It was her name, but Skeeter didn’t write the article, and nor did she have knowledge of it. She’s hopping mad, and terrified that Narcissa Malfoy will make her pay for seemingly reneging on their prior arrangement.”

“So who wrote it?” Pansy demands. “And where does the scum reside?”.

“That’s confidential information, Parkinson.” Harry appears weary as he takes off his glasses and polishes them on the sleeves of his deep scarlet robes. “My point is – we believe Flint’s associate paid this dodgy journo to investigate Draco’s past, and write the article. Well, it couldn’t have been Flint, since he’s still comatose.”

“Didn’t the Auror team seal Flint’s house after you raided it the first time, Harry?” a puzzled Theo chips in. “I thought that was standard procedure?”.

“It is – someone broke the sealing spells, and planted the parchment scraps – they were burned elsewhere,” Harry groans in frustration. “This arsehole is toying with us… playing some kind of ‘catch me if you can’ sick game.’

“We will find him – and he’ll pay, have no doubt of that – but in the meantime, I want everyone in this room to be extra vigilant, until this criminal is locked up, OK? If he’s gone after Draco – he could target any of us.”

They all nod their compliance, as the atmosphere in the room shifts to trepidation and simmering ire. Harry winds up with, “Does anyone have any further questions?”.

“Macdolas asks the friends of the Houses of Granger-Malfoy: who decides to raid the provisions and chooses the wrong platters and bowls for the extemporaneous feast?” the aggrieved high voice cracks the growing tension and causes widespread, infectious laughter amongst the miscellaneous group of peers. The diminutive manservant’s big ears jiggle as his petulance grows.

Blaise nearly slides off the arm of the couch as he pleads guilty. “Sorry, Mac – I figured you wouldn’t mind, and I was hungry,” he gasps, as Macdolas shakes an admonishing finger at him.

“Master Zabini incorrectly uses the soup bowls and the bread platter; he hacks at the Red Leicester cheddar with the paring knife, and picks a dessert spoon for the green olives,” Macdolas testily stamps his foot as the hilarity around him increases.

“Oh, Mac – I’m sorry. Blaise didn’t mean any harm, though,” Hermione bites the inside of her cheeks as she soothes the crabby little house elf. She spies the food containers by his polished Hessians. “Listen – why don’t you set this little feast to rights, and then perhaps you could serve up the dinner party portions we brought home? Make a proper supper of it, hmmm?”.

Macdolas claps his hands in delight. “Her Grace Lady Granger is a mastermind! Macdolas cannot wait until he tells his darlingest Ruibby of the cackle’s indubitable appreciation of her sublime cooking!” and he capers off to the kitchen, effortlessly levitating the stacked containers ahead of him.

Hermione waits until Macdolas is safely out of sight before she lets loose her helpless mirth, clutching at Luna’s and Pansy’s hands for support. The fellow feeling in the room is a marvellous relief, as the stress of the night dissipates to more manageable emotional levels. Theo hiccoughs as Blaise wheezes, while Harry’s chuckles emit in regular bursts. Luna is giggling beside her.

When she is able to vocalize coherent speech again, Hermione gazes gratefully at her companions. “Thank you – all of you – for coming here, and gifting us your generous support, and comfort. You guys are just – just the best, and I love you all for it. Thank you.”

“Even though I upset your house elf/attack dog/bodyguard by pilfering your pantry and using the wrong kitchenware for nibbles?” Blaise cheekily qualifies, with a saucy wink.

Managing only a simple nod (lest her faucet of tears twist to ‘on’ again), Hermione muses at how rich her life is now; she is lucky to be surrounded by friends, family… and Draco.

Smack bang in the centre of her world.

_My complicated, wondrous, extraordinary, beautiful young wizard._

_My Draco._

* * *

**French translations:**

_J'en ai plus rien à foutre_ – I don’t give a flying fuck.

 _Si tu vois ce que je veux dire?_ – if you understand my meaning?

 _Oh oui - tu comprends, ma petite tentatrice sexy_ – Oh yes – I get it, my sexy little temptress.


	42. Transmission

__

_Saturday 15 March 2003: AM_

“Good morning, Mother.” Draco dutifully kisses Narcissa’s proffered cheek before seating himself in the chair to her right. “Where’s Lucius?”.

Narcissa shrugs her elegant shoulders. “Your father skipped breakfast in favour of uselessly threatening that large peacock that continues to defy him by roosting on the roof of the conservatory; apparently it is ‘taunting him from the window of his study with deliberate malice’. I assume he is still outside, waving his cane and yelling dire insults at the creature.” She folds in her lips to hide her tolerant smile.

“At King Blizzard? He’s wasting his breath; that arrogant bird has had Lucius’s measure for years,” Draco chuckles, filling his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, herbed mushrooms and hot buttered toast. Ruibby nods approvingly from her position beside the dining table.

“Well, every man needs a hobby, doesn’t he?” Narcissa counters. “I’ve suggested he take up philately, but he claimed he’d rather shout at poultry.”

The image of Lord Lucius Malfoy bent diligently over a stamp album makes Draco laugh unreservedly, which in turn brings an indulgent smile to Narcissa’s lips. She ceases nibbling at her marmalade-spread piece of toast to enquire, “How are you feeling, _mon fils_? Were you able to attain some rest? It must be strange for you… sleeping back in your old room.” **_Without Hermione_**.

“You know I heard your last thought, Mother – you may as well just speak it, next time.” Draco resigns himself to a maternal sermon. He applies himself to his breakfast, surprised that his appetite has returned with vigour.

“You have not answered my questions, Draco,” Narcissa prods. “Well?”

“I feel… I feel like a weight has been lifted,” Draco slowly admits. “I’ve been dreading the world knowing of my struggles with addiction for so long… I built it up overmuch in my head, I suppose. It’s a relief to let go of that fear.”

“Mmm. I think that finally telling Hermione the truth has also freed you of a heavy burden, yes? You were petrified she would leave you… instead, she claimed you for her own and has vowed to cut a swathe through your enemies.”

“Hermione is intensely loyal,” Draco agrees.

Narcissa fixes him with a shrewd gaze. “Loyal, yes; but you do not credit how deeply she cares for you, my son. No, don’t demur: Hermione Granger is passionately, fiercely in love with you, Draco. You would have to be blind to miss the devotion writ across her face whenever she so much as looks in your direction.”

Hunching his shoulders in an ineffectual attempt to hide his crimsoned face, Draco pretends a great interest in his last rasher of bacon.

“Do not slouch, Draco. Ah, but you are blushing like a tiny schoolboy… has she not told you this herself? Surely, when you declared your own undying love and commitment, Hermione returned your sentiments with equal vehemence?” Narcissa is relentless.

“I–I– I haven’t – y–yark…” Draco mumbles unintelligibly. He is surprised he does not receive a smart rap across the knuckles for his incoherence. Narcissa appears flabbergasted as she relaxes against the highbacked chair, the wind clearly taken from her sails.

Draco cogitates and rejects half a dozen explanations before he blurts, “I never thought it would last – I believed Hermione would come to her senses and reject me long before now… I could not – I could not endure that final level of vulnerability, Mother.’

“I understand, Draco,” Narcissa sighs, gently tweaking at his ear lobe. “Love makes fools of us all.”

Here is an opportunity for candid disclosure that Draco cannot resist. “Mother – why did you not leave Lucius? I know you did not agree with his inexorable pursuit of power and Pureblood supremacy. Was there never a moment when you considered simply… running away?”. He holds his breath as Narcissa’s sapphire eyes becloud.

“I wonder, Draco… do you think less of me for not taking flight? Or would your censure be greater for considering fleeing, yet failing to do so?”. Her voice is tremulous and sorrowful. She waves away his attempt to apologize.

“No – I owe you the truth. You have borne the brunt of our terrible decisions, after all.” Narcissa pushes her half-eaten plate of food to the side, steepling her long manicured fingernails in front of her pale face as she gathers her thoughts.

“By the time I realized that your father’s enthusiasm for the Dark Arts had developed into a full-blown obsession, he was already deep in Voldemort’s clutches. The Dark Lord was dangerously charismatic, Draco; you know him primarily as the grotesque incarnation he assumed in his second life, but when he more closely resembled a man… Voldemort possessed an irresistible magnetism. He had an uncanny knack of perceiving a wizard’s deepest, darkest wish, and how best to exploit that yearning… to twist and corrupt it to suit his own agenda.” Narcissa sips at her cooled tea, her hand trembling.

“Mother – this is upsetting you, we can leave it– ”

“No, Draco. Listen, please. You need to understand. Your father was weak, he hungered for power… and he was bored, as mundane as that sounds. When Voldemort promised him infinite influence and security, Lucius acted rashly. Your grandfather Abraxas had raised Lucius to believe that he was born to rule the Wizarding world, and fostered his unwholesome interest in collecting Dark artefacts; Voldemort unrelentingly capitalized on this inherited vein of lordly entitlement.’

“The day you were born was the first time I considered running, Draco. I had deliberately insulated myself from the shocking reality of Voldemort’s rise to power – I chose to ignore the signs that Lucius had aligned our family with an evil, genocidal devil. But then I held you in my arms, and I wept. I had birthed you into a world on fire… and many of the matches were lit by my own husband.” Her bone china cup rattles discordantly on its saucer; Narcissa barely seems to notice when Ruibby steps forward to gently take it from her hands.

“Oh, yes – I wanted to run. I wanted to take my baby and bolt to the ends of the earth; but Voldemort had made it clear that insurgency was punishable by the cruellest of torturous deaths, of the entire extended family of the rebel. And where would we hide? Voldemort’s reach was insidious, ubiquitous. All I could do was practise my Occlumency and pray that one day, we would be free of his hideous reign.”

Taking a gulping breath, Narcissa concludes, “I never stopped loving Lucius – I couldn’t. Even at his worst, I saw the potential for redemption. I never believed him to be a bad man, Draco… but a proud, foolish wizard who made bad choices and did not – could not! – recover from them. I’m sorry, son.”

Lady Malfoy bows her head into her hands, her muffled sobs making Draco fervidly wish he’d kept his mouth shut. Throat tight, he silently places his spotless white handkerchief in Narcissa’s hands.

“Here, please take it... I’ve started carrying a spare; Hermione’s forever bursting into tears,” he states. “Mother, I’m sorry for making you relive all that– that horror. But thank you, for sharing it with me.”

“It’s alright, Draco. It’s cathartic, to be able to speak to you freely. Secrets fester.” Narcissa regains her perfect posture and dabs genteelly at her moist eyes. “One last thing: strength isn’t always a show of force… sometimes it’s all you can do to survive, and hope for the chance to fight another day. I think you understand that, better than most.”

Gently squeezing his mother’s upper arm, Draco nods his accord.

“Well, I think that is more than enough angst for the morning, don’t you?” Narcissa asks rhetorically. “What plans have you for the day, darling?”.

“I’ve arranged to meet with my sponsor in a few hours,” Draco informs his mother hesitantly. “I haven’t spoken with Ewan for a while… well, since Hermione came into my life, I suppose. I have been lax.”

“Good. And don’t castigate yourself for the oversight, Draco; I well remember the headiness of fresh young love,” Narcissa smiles. “Oh, I know you don’t wish to hear it – but your father and I rivalled you and your bright brunette witch for passion, back in the day– ”

“No need to elaborate, Mother!” Draco winces at the unwelcome images flitting through his mind. “I’ll be in the library until I need to leave to see Ewan; I need to do some research into – into a side project.” _My and Hermione’s magical bond, to be exact: but telling Mother about it would simply accelerate her not-so-light push to have us engaged, married, and pregnant before Christmas._ Draco rises, kissing Narcissa’s cheek once more before turning to the violet-eyed little housekeeper.

“Thank you for breakfast, Ruibby. It was delectable, as ever.”

The petite house elf dips a quick curtsy. “Master Malfoy, Ruibby asks when Her Grace Lady Granger and the Mighty Macdolas return to the Manor? Ruibby wishes to plan a picnic for her… _boyfriend_.” She bashfully lowers her eyes and modulates her high voice to a whisper on the last phrase.

Draco bites back his grin at her uncharacteristic nervousness. “I’m not entirely certain of their next visit here, Ruibby; but it is unlikely to be before Monday.” The little sprite’s crestfallen expression has him impulsively offering, “But when I do return to the townhouse, I shall advise Macdolas to take that entire evening off, Ruibby – is that an acceptable compromise?”.

“Master Malfoy is too kind,” Ruibby demurely replies, though Draco is a tad alarmed by the quick glimmer of… prurience? darting through her lilac eyes before she lowers them again. _Let that be Mother’s problem_ , he decides with no small relief.

An uncomfortable idea slithers through his brain as he departs the room.

_Do I **actually** need to sit down with Macdolas and suffer through ‘The Talk’, before I abandon him to Ruibby’s eager clutches?_

_Dragon’s balls._

* * *

Immersed in a slim volume on soul-merged magic published in the early eighteenth century, Draco narrowly avoids screaming like an immature Mandrake as the library door bangs open without any warning.

His unease switches to irritation when he glimpses the cause of the surprise interruption.

Blaise Zabini strolls through the still-swinging door with a huge smile stretched across his handsome face. “Hallo, buddy!” he drawls, plopping into the brown armchair opposite Draco without so much as a by-your-leave. Theo Nott shrugs resignedly as he follows his partner in crime into the bi-level bibliotheca. The real surprise is Harry Potter bringing up the rear; he nods cautiously at Draco before stopping next to Nott.

“Sorry, Draco – you know what he’s like. Blaise dared himself to open the door wandlessly, and he has less fine spell control than the shakiest of First Years,” Theo explains. 

“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure, gentlemen?” Draco closes his book with a sigh, cricking his neck in a side-to-side stretch before waving for Theo and Harry to be seated in the other two matching easy chairs.

“Malfoy, I have some news– ” Potter’s opening statement is interrupted as Zabini bellows,

“Thought we should introduce ourselves to ‘Mr Jake Malloy’, the Celebrated Muggle Wizard of St John’s Wood!” Blaise can barely finish the sentence, as his rollicking laughter reverberates around the (previously) tranquil chamber.

 _Oh, marvellous. Trust Zabini to milk this ‘grand joke’ like a Jersey cow._ Draco seriously contemplates Transfiguring his ex-classmate into a baboon. His wand hand twitches as he runs over the spell in his mind, eyes narrowed in displeasure as the tips of his ears pinken.

“He’s not worth it, Malfoy,” Potter quietly warns. “Besides, he’d probably just get some sick thrill out of experiencing life as whichever creature you’re planning on changing him into for a few hours.”

Theo clips Blaise across the back of his head, causing the tall Slytherin to slide forward in his seat.

“Shut up, dickhead.” Nott is unusually stern with his old friend. “You’ve had your fun – now stow it. We’ve more important things to do here than listen to you braying like a demented donkey.”

“Has something happened to Hermione?” Draco barks, rising to his feet in an alarmed flash. Harry shakes his head in negation immediately.

“She and Macdolas are fine; I’ve come to tell you about the connection between the Evening Prophet’s smear campaign and Marcus Flint.” Draco’s eyes darken to the hue of thunderstorm clouds as Harry swiftly summarizes the corrupt link.

At the conclusion of Potter’s spiel, Draco growls, “Do you have this slimy prick in custody yet?”.

“He’s rabbited – left the country using an illegal Portkey a few hours before the story broke,” Harry reluctantly imparts. “But we’re confident we’ll pick him up by the end of the weekend; he bragged to the barflies at his local pub about his ‘huge windfall’ and where he was planning to hole up to spend it. We’ll get him, Malfoy – and then we’ll be one step closer to finding Flint’s cohort.”

“You know I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt Hermione again, don’t you?” Draco’s low, clipped tones are imbued with mercilessly savage promise. “She’s lived with this insidious evil hanging over her head for far too long. When I think on what could have happened to her at the Ministry– ”

“I know how you feel, Malfoy – no, listen to me! Hermione has been my best friend for over a decade – these bastards will have to get through both of us, OK?” Harry looks as viciously protective as Draco feels.

“And me,” Theo vows.

“And me – three!” Blaise sticks up his big paw without a moment’s vacillation.

Draco is mollified by their solidarity, though his rage and anxiety continue to flame at a high simmer. He rubs the angry fist of his right hand along his inner left forearm, unaware of the compulsive action until Theo lightly tugs at the sleeve of his off-white lawn cotton button-down shirt.

“It will be alright, Draco. We’ll keep her safe. She’s our friend, too.” Theo’s moss-green eyes are grave as he quietly conveys, “We’re here for you, mate… I’m proud of you, Draco. Seeing that atrocious photograph in the paper… I wish I’d known how hard things were for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you then – but I’m here for you now. Whatever you need.”

Standing stock-still, Draco blinks rapidly as Blaise unfolds his length from the leather armchair to stand beside Theo. “I feel the same way, _amico_. And we want you to understand that none of this discreditable bullshit holds any sway with us.”

Zabini gingerly pats Draco’s rigid back, like an ostler gentling a skittish horse. “You’re like – my hero. I’m not joking. Well, not much,” he amends with an irrepressible laugh. “No, truly – I’m humbled by your courage and fortitude. Ignore anyone who thinks any differently. We all dropped into the townhouse last night to tell you that – plus Pansy and Luna. And Luna asked us to tell you that Hagrid reckons ‘yer heart’s stronger than a Ukrainian Ironbelly’s, an’ he’s righ’ proud o’ yeh fer bein’ man enough ter get the help yeh needed’.” Hagrid’s distinctive accent rolling off Blaise’s tongue is both impressive and disconcerting.

 _Bloody hell – I might need that second handkerchief back from Mother, after all_. Draco tries to discreetly sniff back his inchoate tears of gratefulness and humility.

He is floored when Potter stands and shuffles nearer. “Malfoy – to be honest, I was initially shocked, and apprehensive about your involvement with Hermione. But within ten minutes of seeing you with her – seeing you being so caring and thoughtful, and how attentive you were to her every need – I realized I had nothing to worry about.” Harry pauses, scoring his dextrous fingers through his rumpled black mane.

“Ron’s my best mate, but he… he didn’t really _get_ Hermione. He didn’t put her first, in anything. But you do. I believe you always will. I’m sorry you suffered, and that you had to cope with the consequences of addiction while you were just a teenager – but your struggles eventually resulted in you becoming a better human being, and a man deserving of Hermione Granger.”

Harry awkwardly thrusts out his hand; Draco stares down at it as though he’s being offered a still-beating human heart in an Aztec sacrifice. Blaise grins approvingly as Theo tilts his chin in minute encouragement.

Silently, Draco exchanges a short, gruff handshake with Harry. He cannot help but think back to the first day they met, when Potter essentially gave him ‘the cut direct’ when he very publicly refused to shake Draco’s hand. _Will wonders never cease…_

“You’re alright, Malfoy.”

“As are you, Potter.”

* * *

Hermione is rambling about upstairs (rather aimlessly, unless one considers protractedly sniffing Draco’s pillow and spritzing a tiny puff of his expensive spicy cologne on her wrist to be important activities) when she hears Macdolas’s animated high-pitched voice squeaking her name.

Buttoning up Draco’s shawl-collared sapphire blue cardigan over her lighter blue sleeved maxi-dress, Hermione hastens to the landing, finding Macdolas standing at the foot of the stairs. He is clutching a sealed letter in one hand, and a single flower in the other.

“Her Grace Lady Granger has a delivery from Master Malfoy – may Macdolas please be bringing it upstairs?” he trills happily.

“Of course, Mac.” Lips already curving, Hermione doesn’t have long to wait: Macdolas flies up the stairs as though he’s trying to set a new world record for staircase ascents. He presents her gifts with a sweeping bow and plenty of pomp.

The blossom is a delicate cream ‘sweetheart’ rose; its long stem has been carefully stripped of all thorny projections, and its exquisite dense petals are perfectly unblemished. Hermione touches the opened bud with her fingertip, marvelling at its smooth, silky texture. Mac slips the envelope into her other hand with a gentle nudge.

“Macdolas feeds Manu an owl treat and bids him please stay; Macdolas takes the liberty of assuming Her Grace Lady Granger has a response to Master Malfoy’s billet doux?” Macdolas prompts, as Hermione remains engrossed in sniffing the gorgeous bloom now held in her hand.

“Oh, yes – I’ll just read this, and reply… but I’m unsure how long that will take, Mac,” Hermione frowns.

Shrugging, he advises, “Manu rests in the kitchen – he is a seasoned delivery owl of the Manor, Your Grace. Please call Macdolas whenever you are ready to send your epistle,” Macdolas bows, before turning to descend the staircase with the same helter-skelter speed with which he climbed it.

Walking back to their bedroom, Hermione clambers onto the bed and settles against the padded fabric headboard, carefully setting her pretty rose on her pillow before slipping her finger beneath the heavy vellum and breaking the instantly recognizable red wax seal imprinted with the Malfoy insignia.

 _You know you’ve got it bad when your heart leaps at seeing a stylized ‘M’ on a small scarlet disk_ , she mocks her giddy self.

Unfolding the parchment, she greedily runs her eyes over the elegant script.

‘ _Ma petite_ Hermione,

How are you, my brave, beautiful lioness? Is Macdolas behaving himself? Ruibby has already begun pestering me as to the timing of his next visit. I sincerely hope the little ruffian has the elfish version of a male chastity belt tucked away in his costume wardrobe, for I did not care for the downright salacious look in Ruibby’s eye when I informed her Macdolas would be gifted an evening’s furlough upon my return to our home. This is not ‘cute’, Granger. It is unequivocally terrifying.

Enough of that. I shall leave it to you to explain the ‘Hoo-hoos and the Hippogriffs’ to our wee scallywag. You’ve always been the far superior student, and teacher. (Yes, I am hoping that flattery gets me everywhere and you will take pity on a poor, beleaguered wizard).

Last night I dreamed a recurring vision I’ve had for years… sitting with you between my legs, beneath a shady tree in a secluded spot on the Hogwarts grounds. The sunlight is dappling your beautiful face, your glorious eyes are relaxed and shuttered as you enthusiastically tell me all about whichever books you’re currently devouring. I’m propped against the trunk of the tree, alternating between kissing the crown of your head and running my fingers through your splendid hair. It may be considered merely a little moment, but it is one that I have long yearned for, and never thought I could experience.

Thank you for accepting me, Granger; warts and all. I have made a right hash of things – desperately pretending our liaison was merely sexual, not divulging the truth of my past, trying to push you away when the wolves began baying at our door – but I am committed to believing I am worthy of you. Worthy of our future.

Zabini, Nott, and Potter turned up at the Manor earlier. Their steady, non-judgemental support was freely offered, and for that, I forgive you for wasting no time in disclosing my ‘Muggle’ moniker to the group. Potter even voluntarily shook my hand, if you can believe it. He’s not the smug git I thought him to be – though I’d rather you didn’t tell him that. I must remember to thank Pansy for putting ‘Lightning Bolt’ in his place last night. Potter was a chump to mix it up with her – we all know better.

Please keep up your defensive training, Granger. Macdolas is a keen duellist; beneath all his fripperies and foppery, he has the heart of a Highland warrior and revels in a bout of good-natured, bloodless warfare. He’s likely to try to take it easy on you, though. Perhaps tease him a little about his outlandish apparel, that never fails to get his dander up. Be safe, and vigilant.

Today I am visiting my AA sponsor, Ewan Humphries. He reminds me a little of your father, though he is not as prone to telling highly embarrassing personal anecdotes. Ewan has been my lifeline during my recovery. I’d like you to meet him one day, if you’re amenable. He knows just about everything there is to know about you already (please don’t ask me to explain that, just yet. I’ve no doubt you can figure out why, _ma petite_ ).

I miss you, Hermione.

I ache for you.

I am, and always shall be,

Your Draco.

PS It may amuse you to learn that Lucius spent the better part of the morning hollering vitriolic abuse at the alpha white peacock who enjoys perching on the conservatory roof, with predictably fruitless results. I hope you are here to witness the next instalment of Lord Lucius Malfoy VS King Blizzard. It never fails to entertain.

D.L.M.’

Sponging a few joyful tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her borrowed cardigan, Hermione smiles at the image of Lucius Malfoy raging impotently at one of the indifferent famous white peacocks she is yet to catch a glimpse of on the Malfoy estate. It is almost a relief to know that ‘Lucy’ has not undergone a totally implausible character evolution; he remains a natural-born arsehole at heart, albeit a less treacherous one. _One hopes._

Rummaging through her bedside drawer, Hermione finds blank parchment, ink, and a sharpened quill. She taps the plume against her pursed lips a few times in reflective rumination before setting the nib to the paper and letting her heartfelt thoughts flow…

* * *

_Saturday 15 March 2003: PM_

“Demonic buzzing beastie! Macdolas will not suffer its presence in the Townhouse of Malfoy another second!”. Hermione quickens her steps from the lounge room to the kitchen to investigate Mac’s maddened outburst.

The large-eared manikin’s right hand is rattling the third drawer down with enough vigour to rip the polished handle off its frontispiece. “Devil begone!” he screeches.

“Mac – what’s going on? Is there a big spider in there?” Hermione has trouble peering inside the half-opened drawer, given Macdolas’s jigging footwork obstructing her view.

“Her Grace Lady Granger must stand back! We know not the evil powers of the fiendish entity!”. Macdolas’s telekinesis comes into play as he lets go of the drawer while it jerkily shuttles forth on its runners. “It screams again – Macdolas kills it stone dead!” he agitatedly testifies.

The classic ringtone of ‘Grande Valse’ burbles, as Hermione finally makes sense of the source of the commotion. She presses a hand to her stomach in an attempt to stave off her relieved laughter. “Mac – please, stop! I promise, it won’t hurt you. Look, I’m going to pull it out – slowly – and turn off the ringer, OK?”.

Appearing unconvinced, a scowling Macdolas bobs a wary nod, his unblinking buggy eyes watching intently as Hermione reaches in and extracts her silver Nokia 3310. It stops trilling its merry tone before she can fumble at the reject key. A quick look at the small display screen shows six missed calls.

 _Oops. No wonder Macdolas was annoyed by the incessant electronic susurrations._ Hermione sighs as she recognizes the number that has repeatedly tried and failed to contact her: ‘Dad & Mum’. Before she checks her voicemail, she holds up the cellular device for her steward’s inspection.

“It’s called a mobile phone, Mac. Have you ever seen a regular telephone? No? Well, this is a way for Muggles to communicate across long distances – like a Floo call, but instead of being able to see the other person’s head in the green flames, we can hear each other’s voices. And this type of phone is portable, so it’s handy to take with you when you’re travelling from place to place. It’s harmless – see?” Hermione placates.

Deigning to experimentally poke a long gnarly finger at the metallic face, Mac asks in puzzlement, “It is a ‘telly-foam’? But it is hard to the touch?”.

“A ‘telephone’,” Hermione corrects. She has a burst of inspiration at how best to explain the device. “It is made of metal, and works using radio waves to transmit sound back and forth between cell towers… you trust my little radio in the flat, don’t you? This is a version of that technology, see? No need to be afraid, Mac.” Hermione is pleased when Mac’s expression clears of trepidation and suspicion.

“But why does it squeal at Macdolas so insistently?” he enquires.

“Oh, that’s the alert that tells you when someone wishes to speak with you, Mac. All those calls – that was probably my Dad trying to reach me. He’s not the most patient of men… and he reads the Daily Prophet; he’s likely seen the follow-up article about Draco, and wants to ensure we’re alright,” she replies. 

Mac nods sagely. “Her Grace Lady Granger should contact the Father Dentist Granger as soon as possible – he does not like the Floo.”

“I’m on it, Mac.” Hermione slides onto one of the tall kitchen stools before she fiddles with the Nokia and punches the ‘call’ button. It is answered within two rings; her father must have been practically sitting on it.

“At last! Where have you been, Little Wendy? Do you enjoy making your poor old dad fret over whether he should file a missing person’s report?” Bernard Granger wastes no time in selling the drama, his indignant deep voice thrumming through the earpiece.

“Has your community theatre group shut down early this year, Dad? Because if you’re trying out for the role of ‘Stereotypical Stern Father’ – your acting skills need a few more workshops,” Hermione ripostes. “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” she sarcastically adds.

There is a moment’s pause. “Is Draco alright?” Her father’s query startles Hermione into silence. “Little Wendy? You still there?”.

“Um – Draco was shocked and upset last night, but he’s dealing with it, Dad. I’m… I’m surprised you’re not being more critical about his problem, actually,” Hermione slowly responds.

“Makes sense now, the way the boy turned his life around. Can’t have been easy for him. He’s got grit – I admire that. Keep that to yourself though, Little Wendy. Don’t want Draco thinking I’m going to go easy on him, not this early in the piece, anyway,” Bernard counsels. “Besides, I wasn’t born yesterday – I know a media beat-up when I read it. Thought you’d curtailed that Skeeter bitch years ago, eh?”.

Hermione is surprised she hasn’t slid off her stool, so amazed is she by her father’s unexpectedly pragmatic, sympathetic reaction to the news article. “It wasn’t really Rita Skeeter who wrote that piece, Dad – but Narcissa and I are handling it, never fear.”

“That’s my clever, ruthless daughter,” Bernard hums approvingly. “Give no quarter – I’ve taught you well.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione simply says, “Thanks, Dad. I’d better go – we’ve got a busy afternoon planned. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, I didn’t have my phone nearby.”

“Well, what’s the point of having one of those dratted mobiles if you don’t carry it with you? You know how I feel about them – bloody nuisances, always shrieking out in public and wrecking the peace – oh hang on, your mother’s asking me to invite you and Draco for dinner this week, I’ll cook my famous Portuguese peri-peri butterflied chicken on the barbecue, some fresh corn on the cob – Jane, Draco’s bound to like a bit of spice – he’s dating our girl, isn’t he? No, she reckons she’s got to go, don’t worry, I promise not to poison the boy with chilli– ”

“Hello, sweetie – are you alright? I’m sorry for Draco, it must have been a dreadful shock for you both,” Hermione puts back the mobile flush to her ear as he mother’s soothing voice comes from the secondary extension in her parent’s home.

“Hi, Mum. We’re OK. Draco’s spending a few days at the Manor, but he’ll be back soon. And Macdolas isn’t leaving my side.”

“You can always stay here with us, Little Wendy – and Macdolas is welcome too, of course. Do you reckon he’d let me have a look at his teeth?” Bernard booms down the line.

“No, Dad! Leave Mac’s teeth alone – and Draco’s, for that matter. I’ll get back to you about a weeknight dinner once I’ve spoken with Draco. I’ll talk to you soon,” Hermione rubs at her forehead as she ponders her overly-curious, lacking-in-boundaries father prising open poor Macdolas’s wide mouth to have a gander at his choppers.

“That’s fine. Please be careful, Hermione. Love you, sweetie,” her Mum farewells.

“Ask Draco if he draws caricatures, Little Wendy – my mate Richard had one done at a street fair the other week – drew him in his waders with a ridiculously large fish hanging off the line, talk about wishful thinking – and I reckon mine would come out much better, you know, a ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ type of scene– ”

“Bye, Dad! Love you,” Hermione cuts off Bernard before he can follow that tangent down another convoluted rabbit hole.

“Love you, Little Wendy; tell the boy to bring his own pen and ink, I’ve got a sketchbook already– ”

Pressing ‘end’, Hermione sets the phone on the countertop and briefly contemplates letting Mac blast the innocuous-looking silver handset into smithereens. _Pfft – as if that would shut down Dad’s quirky gregariousness. He’s a nut… but a lovable nut. And his unsolicited support of Draco is top-notch._

Turning her head, she notes Macdolas covering his mouth with one hand, muffling his words as he worriedly asks, “The Father Dentist wants Macdolas’s teeth?”.

Hermione shakes her head firmly. “Absolutely not happening, Mac. Ignore Dad, he’s a bit of a goose most of the time. Come on – you and I have many errands to run, my friend.” She holds out her hand; they walk out of the kitchen and toward the Floo fireplace at a brisk pace.

“We’ll start with The Daily Prophet offices; I reckon your British Bobby outfit is going to come in very handy today, Mac.”

Tugging fastidiously at the black belt nipping in the waist of his replica traditional dark blue policeman’s tunic, Macdolas levitates the black custodian helmet from atop the hallway rack and adjusts the strap beneath his chin with pride.

“Best to leave the truncheon at home, though – remember what Draco said, about weaponry?” Hermione gently reminds him.

Huffing once, Mac dutifully lays the rubber baton on the coffee table.

“Let’s go, Killer.”


	43. Retribution

__

_Saturday 15 March 2003: PM_

“Hermione, darling – over here,” Narcissa Malfoy waves imperiously from the least busiest corner of the Daily Prophet’s foyer. Ruibby is positioned beside her, dressed for once in something other than her very proper and traditional ‘Mrs Danvers’ black housekeeper’s uniform; she is instead clothed in a pretty red and white boho ‘milkmaid’ style dress, although the puffed sleeves look ridiculously large on Ruibby’s spindly little arms.

 _I feel like Marilla Cuthbert acerbically judging Anne Shirley’s long-desired new brown snuff dress_ , Hermione smiles to herself. Macdolas has spotted his blonde paramour and is towing Hermione across the parquet floor like a leashed, overeager puppy at a dog park.

“Slow down, Mac – Ruibby isn’t going anywhere,” her admonition falls on deaf flittermouse ears as Macdolas skids to a stop directly in front of his lady love.

“Macdolas bids the Utterly Prepossessing and Polished Ruibby _bonne après-midi;_ Ruibby _est ravissante et de toute beauté_ _._ ” Hermione silently applauds Mac’s slick transfer of Ruibby’s small hand to his lips, bestowing a lingering kiss as the head maid giggles kittenishly.

“I wasn’t aware Macdolas was fluent in French,” Narcissa drolly observes. “How are you, dear?” She lightly squeezes Hermione’s arm and smiles.

“Oh, I’m well, thank you. We’re learning French together; Draco likes to speak– he likes to speak French sometimes,” Hermione lamely finishes, hoping the older witch doesn’t question her too closely. _I really need to work on curtailing my fixation to immediately answer every question asked of me… no one’s keeping a points tally anymore, you idiot._

“Ah.” But the twinkle in Lady Malfoy’s eye speaks volumes; Hermione tries not to cringe beneath her amused gaze.

“Did Draco tell you that Rita was hacked? Harry is still hunting the actual scandalmonger, but he’s confident they’ll soon have the fool in custody,” Hermione quickly switches the subject. “I don’t think it will affect our original plan overmuch, but it’s rather disappointing that Rita’s not the true culprit – I was looking forward to scaring her silly,” she sighs.

Shrugging, Narcissa steps forward to weave her arm through Hermione’s and leads her in the direction of the elevator. “Oh, never fear, Hermione, we’ll still have plenty of punitive fun with the deplorable Miss Skeeter today. Ruibby, Macdolas – do save your amorous shenanigans for your downtime; there will be plenty of future opportunities for you to dote on one another. Exercise a modicum of decorum in public, please.”

The elfish lovers dutifully increase the distance between their little bodies a few more inches, though their handhold stays firm as they trot behind the two witches.

“Narcissa – how’s Draco?” Hermione lowers her voice as they near the half-full elevator. “Is he coping, do you think? Has he been eating properly? Is he getting enough sleep? What about– ”

“Don’t fret, dear; my son is hale, and mostly hearty. The shadows that have dwelt in the back of his eyes for too long are finally brightening.” Narcissa pats Hermione’s hand affectionately. “Thank you for your generous heart, Hermione; your love has given Draco the strength to believe in himself once more.’

“Ah – your blush mirrors Draco’s this morning, when he confessed you have not yet exchanged those three special words,” she smiles, clucking her tongue with indulgent exasperation. “Never mind, my dear. You’ll get there, when you’re ready – mind you don’t take too long about it, though. I’d hate to have to literally knock your stubborn heads together.”

“It’s only – it’s only been a month,” Hermione feels compelled to defend. She stops her nails seeking out her scar as she quietly shares, “I know I come across as quite… confident – well, some might say overbearingly so – anyway, I’m not as self-assured in every aspect of my life, or my personality. I don’t – that is, I feel– ” she flails, miserably wondering where her articulateness has fled.

“Hermione. Look at me, please.” Ignoring the curious gazes of the elevator’s three other occupants, Narcissa waits to speak again until Hermione lifts her head to meet the matriarch’s clear cerulean regard.

“You don’t need to say it, to feel it; and it’s perfectly understandable to shy from that final, vulnerable declaration. And when you consider how long my son has pined for you from afar… it’s only fair that he should profess his feelings first. Perhaps it’s just as well you’re learning French, hmmm?”

Her throat too tight to reply, Hermione nods bashfully. Narcissa’s mien morphs from benevolent to businesslike as the elevator doors open. “This is our floor: time to put a wicked witch back in her box. After you.”

 _Back in her jar_. Hermione stifles her chuckle as the words pop unbidden into her head. She follows Narcissa as the aristocratic sorceress thrusts open the door emblazoned ‘Skeeter’ without bothering to knock. A shrill scream emanates from the room’s occupant.

“Narcissa! What are you– what an unexpected surprise!” Rita obsequiously declares, a pained wince of a smile stretched across her heavily glamoured face as she scrambles around the sturdy maple wood desk currently covered in parchment and files.

“That’s ‘Lady Malfoy’ to you, Rita,” Narcissa glacially informs, flicking her wrist to wandlessly clear the two visitors’ chairs of similar stacks of accrued documents. They fall to the floor with a heavy flump as Narcissa beckons Hermione to sit beside her. “I take you have met Ms Granger before?”.

“Yes, yes – Hermione and I are old friends, Lady Malfoy,” Rita cringes as Hermione glares at her with one eyebrow raised. “I mean… Ms Granger has… erm… helped to guide my work, in the past.” The mid-green eyes behind Rita’s bejewelled spectacles appear frankly panicked as she skitters back behind her desk.

“May I offer you some refreshments? Tea, coffee, perhaps something a little stronger? Oh – well, perhaps not – I momentarily forgot your familial… ahem, troubles in that area,” Rita digs her grave a little deeper with every flustered word.

“With the exception of the non-negotiable instructions you are about to receive from us: you will not discuss my son’s brave struggle with addiction **EVER** again, Rita. Or you will suffer the full force of my wrath. Do I make myself clear?” Narcissa’s chilled tones send a shiver up Hermione’s spine, such is the unmistakable scorn and unwavering determination imbued in the directive.

 _Had Narcissa ever truly committed to Voldemort’s cause… we may well have been annihilated_ , Hermione decides, watching in awe as Rita cowers under Narcissa’s laser-like regard.

“Crystal clear!” Rita squeaks. “May I take this opportunity to apologize for this dreadful turn of events – I had no idea my files were hacked, no idea at all, I assure you! Imagine my shock and horror when I learned of the foul treachery, and from a man I trusted implicitly! That bloody no-good double-dealing lying cheating sticky-fingered filthy _charlatan_ of a wizard! Wait until I get my hands on him– ” she growls, in a hoarse tone markedly different to her usual pretentiously artificial speaking voice.

Blinking, Rita smooths down her garish green robes with trembling, burgundy-tipped talons. “I was deceived,” she mumbles quietly, head down cast. Her elaborately-styled ringlets shiver as she clenches her jaw.

“You were sleeping with him.” Narcissa tut-tuts as Rita’s eyes fly up in unpractised shock. “Dear me, Rita: I would have thought that by now you were well versed in the old adage, ‘Never dip your pen in the company’s ink’? I’d almost feel sympathetic to your naïve idiocy, were I not disgusted in your laxity – _and the breaking of our contract_.”

Narcissa pays no heed to the unscrupulous journalist’s moist eyes and blenching countenance. “Enough of your mewling excuses – close your deceitful mouth and listen intently to what we are about to tell you. Hermione?” she prompts, settling back slightly into her chair as she indicates for the brunette witch to continue.

 _Damn – I want to be just like you when I grow up_ , Hermione admiringly decides. _Talk about a bad-arsed boss._

She gives herself a little shake and opens the enchanted beaded bag resting on her lap, before she begins.

“We’re not interested in your prevarications, Rita. You had a deal with Lady Malfoy, and you broke the terms of that arrangement when you failed to destroy the last photographic negative and the file notes in your possession. Here’s what you’re going to do about it.’

“Step One: you will immediately print this retraction,” she hands Skeeter a single sheet of parchment. “It states that the Daily Prophet apologizes unreservedly for its slanderous account of Draco Malfoy’s battles with addiction, and that the employee responsible for writing the insidious article is now wanted on charges of accepting bribes and colluding with a criminal organization. I have generously included the simple statement that you were not personally involved in this ignominy, Rita. Don’t make me regret my charity.’

Rita appears as though she’s about to launch into another babbling, self-pitying rant; Hermione forestalls this with a raised hand.

“Step Two: you will write a series of meticulously researched articles exploring the sensitive topics of post-War psychological disorders, including but not limited to: PTSD; addiction (in all its forms); eating disorders; obsessions and compulsions; self-harming behaviours; depression; anxiety; suicidal ideation, communication, behaviours, and intent; and rehabilitation and recovery, to name but a few. The Wizarding world needs to understand and accept that mental health is just as important as physical wellness, and seeking help to address your psychological issues is encouraged and supported.’

“And when I say ‘you’ will write it, I mean you will build on my notes and rough draft and submit your articles for my final approval before you print a single word.’

“Step Three: you will vigorously and widely promote the newly-formed not-for-profit counselling foundation ‘Help Will Always Be Given’, both in your series of articles, and in your generous donation (of seventy percent of your payment for said series) to the foundation – but of course, you will keep your donations strictly anonymous. No basking in your non-existent altruism, Rita,” Hermione grins as the scheming witch’s face droops like a dying flower.

“Now – before you mope and moan and claim it’s all terribly unfair, I will remind you that failure to conform with any of our demands will result in some very unpleasant consequences, and your career will take a fatal swan dive into first the murky depths of infamy, then unloved obscurity. You’re a malignant egotist, Rita: sure, the money is a plus, but you’re really in the business of media because it perfectly serves your insatiable hunger for fame, power, and constant attention. Do you really wish to risk that? Again? And then, of course… there’s this.”

Reaching into the enspelled little bag that has served her well over the years, Hermione pulls out a single object, watching gleefully as Rita’s eyes swell from ‘alarmed’ to ‘terrified’. The small rocks, moss, and twigs she’d earlier asked Mac to source from Draco’s back garden rattle faintly as Hermione places the aerated jam jar atop Skeeter’s cluttered desk.

“It’s quite a pretty terrarium, wouldn’t you say?” Hermione muses, turning the jar in a complete circle as Rita’s hairline dampens with flop sweat. “Just the right size for a… beetle?”

“I’ll do it!” Rita shrieks. “All of it – I swear!”. Her sausage curls are unravelling as quickly as her composure. “Just put – put that wretched jar back in your purse!” she begs.

 _I suppose I should feel some remorse for tormenting Rita in this fashion – but I don’t. Her poisoned pen has harmed far too many good witches and wizards over the years… and her greediness and stupidity hurt my darling Draco. Bitch had better believe I’ll trap her beneath glass if she doesn’t comply._ Hermione stows the jam jar back into her bag, not bothering to mask her triumphant grin. She retrieves her notes and research, which Rita snatches without a word, her hands still quavering.

“Rita – against my better judgment, I’m going to gift you a boon,” Hermione sighs as her silly conscience does kick in a little. “Get out your quill and parchment – and definitely NOT the Quick-Quotes Quill, or I’ll set your office afire – because once we’re done ensuring your complete compliance and capitulation, I’m going to let you interview me about my personal experience of PTSD, obsessive compulsive behaviours, and effective therapy methods that helped me to cope with my issues. I’ll stick around until I’m satisfied with the final draft. And no questions about my relationship with Draco, beyond what I explicitly give you permission to print, do you understand?”.

Licking her fuchsia-coated lips in an unconscious show of avarice, Rita fervently nods. “Of course, Ms Granger. I wouldn’t dream of crossing you.” Her beady eyes alight on Macdolas and Ruibby as they stand silently beside Hermione and Narcissa. “Ooh – how remiss of me, not to greet you two little lovelies before. Tell me, are you MacDonald? The famous hero house elf who saved poor Hermione from fates unknown? How do you feel about telling the Prophet your side of the story, you dear little puck?” she coos in a sickeningly coy tone; clearly her rampant egoism and greed for the next big chronicle has won out over her craven fear and frayed nerves.

Before Hermione or Narcissa can rush to Mac’s defence, he puts Skeeter solidly in her place.

“Macdolas is not a MacDonald; Macdolas reads the Prophet for himself – he knows that Rita the Sly Skeeter prints lies and is no friend of Her Grace Lady Granger, Lady Malfoy, Master Malfoy, nor the House Elves of Granger-Malfoy. Macdolas’s mother tells him true that not all snakes have scales,” he sneers. Ruibby audibly hisses at the shady reporter.

Rita sputters in outrage at the stony-faced sprite’s emphatic dressing-down. “Why, you shrimpy little bast– ”

“Do not speak another word, Rita,” Narcissa’s voice is soft and deadly. “If Hermione’s regulations still leave you with a sense of wounded rebellion, consider this: I have all the negatives of your own ‘special’ snapshots, an impregnable security system, and no compunction whatsoever to spare you the karmic justice you so richly deserve. You are merely a tool to me; and what use is a dull knife? Do as you are bid, close your Venus flytrap mouth, and consider yourself extremely lucky to have escaped with your job and your sorry hide intact.”

Hermione cannot stop her mirth escaping as Rita’s last vestiges of resentful rancour are destroyed when Narcissa’s razor-sharp words have the desired effect.

“Yes, Lady Malfoy. Permission to take this retraction to my editor, please? It won’t make the Evening Prophet in time, otherwise,” Skeeter mumbles, as she sidles toward the door.

“Go.” Narcissa flicks an impatient finger in the way of someone snapping an insect off a plate and Rita flees immediately.

Hermione’s curiosity must be sated. “Excuse me, Narcissa? What are these ‘special snapshots’ that Rita is petrified you’ll leak?”.

Narcissa laughs blithely as she replies, “I’m not one to kink-shame, Hermione – ‘to each her own’, after all – but Rita’s youthful personal sexual proclivities were… quite particular, shall we say? I have no intention of ever releasing those salacious photographs, but Rita doesn’t know that. Best she believe me capable of cruel exposure, though I would not lower myself against the sisterhood in such a demeaning fashion… for all Rita’s duplicitousness and sharp practice, she _is_ a fellow witch.”

 _Wow. Just… wow_. “I think you’re my Yoda,” Hermione gushes before she can censor herself.

“What’s that, dear? A branch of Eastern Muggle philosophy?” Narcissa asks curiously.

“Something like that,” Hermione smiles in reply.

_Wait until I tell Draco about all of this – he is going to love it._

* * *

Manu pecks Draco’s head none-too-gently as the young wizard begins to slip his forefinger beneath the sealed flap of Hermione’s letter.

“Ouch! Alright, alright, I’ll get you a treat before I open this,” Draco concedes. Another peck. “Fine – two, no, three treats… Greedy bird,” he darts out of pecking range and hurries to the urn beside the open window in Lucius’s study. He tosses the mice-shaped treats into the air one-by-one; Manu catches them effortlessly, gulping them down with relish.

“It’s a singular feeling, being bullied by avian terrorists,” Lucius Malfoy dryly observes, from his blood-red Westbury leather armchair. “I’ve half a mind to procure a Muggle shotgun and blast that fiendish peacock off the conservatory roof for once and for all.”

“Lucius – you wouldn’t!” Draco is aghast at the idea of his father harbouring a yen for heavy artillery.

“I was joking, Draco,” his sire pouts, as Manu eerily rotates his feathered head almost one hundred and eighty degrees to disdainfully stare at both men. “I’d likely shoot off my own foot, in any case… weak as a fucking kitten, these days,” he mutters in a bitter undertone.

“Lucius– Father, are you ill? You don’t look… like yourself.” Draco is hesitant to elaborate on his comment: the current truce with his parent is uneasy, at best. He carefully stows Hermione’s precious letter in his trouser pocket before he turns to give Lucius his full attention.

There is a fraught pause as Lucius slowly strokes the head of his snake cane. “Your mother believes I’m ‘clinically depressed’,” he finally speaks. “Wants to bring in a ruddy Healer, to poke and prod and push dubious potions upon me until I turn purple. Much good it would do.”

“What do you want to do, Father? You’re clearly unhappy. If you wish to talk about it – I won’t judge you.” Draco makes the quiet offer before involuntarily holding his breath. Lucius is notoriously difficult to read when he’s as rigidly shuttered as he is at present.

“I don’t know, Draco. I am not deliberately starving myself – I have little appetite. Life in general doesn’t seem to hold much flavour… I feel as though I have been living the same perpetually tedious day over and over, ever since my sentence was decreed.” Lucius fixes his gaze upon the speckled owl, who supersedes him for haughtiness.

“Every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded of my failures. My limitations. My sins,” he whispers. “Being stripped of my wand – living in comparative exile – some days I think I would rather have received the Kiss and been done with it all.” He ignores Draco’s dismayed gasp. “Oh, none would mourn me, save Narcissa. I’m sure you’ve wished me dead on numerous occasions,” Lucius emits a brittle replica of a laugh.

“That is untrue, Lucius; I have never wanted you to die,” Draco replies, striving to keep his voice steady, despite his shock. “You are my father, and… and I am beginning to understand why you choose to do some of the terrible things you did. Mother talked to me about it this morning, actually.”

“Did she, indeed? Perhaps she believes you finally ready to handle the dispiriting truth, that your father was a pompous fool who needlessly endangered his family and was unmasked as a weak, pathetic milquetoast. Narcissa should have left me decades ago,” Lucius maunders.

“She didn’t – because she loves you, and she believes in you. Even seeing you at your worst, she had hope that you would redeem yourself. Surely her fierce love and commitment is something worth living for?” Draco quietly petitions. He inhales and exhales a couple of deep breaths before he resumes.

“Father – your house arrest is nearly over. In a few more months, you’ll be able to leave the Manor… try to gain some perspective on the world, and your place in it. It’s easy to forget how joyous the universe can be, when you’re confined to a tiny part of it. Give yourself some time to readjust… and don’t keep beating yourself up. You have to learn to live with your mistakes if you are ever to stop repeating them.”

The elder wizard opens and closes his mouth a few times, before he manages to enunciate, “I’m afraid, Draco. Afraid of the world beyond those gates… ever the coward, you see.” He shrivels back into his chair, dry eyes burning.

 _Maybe I need to get Blaise over to instigate another male-bonding ‘group hug’._ Draco shakes off the humorous image of his father squashed into the middle of a Great Zabini multi-cuddle.

“I’m scared every day, Father. Frightened I’ll lose my inspiration to paint, terrified I’ll start drinking again and not be able to stop… petrified I’ll do or say something moronic and– and Hermione will leave me.” Draco swallows hard, willing his nerve to hold. “I try to focus on one day at a time – as trite as that sounds – and one choice at a time. I’m not suggesting you partake in anything you’re deeply uncomfortable with, but if you love Mother so much, could you not at least consider her ideas? She’s far smarter and wiser than you and I combined, as I’m certain you’re aware.”

Shrugging melancholically, Lucius loosens his grip on the black-lacquered staff. “Of course I know how intelligent and shrewd Narcissa is; fortunately for me, I seem to be her one blind spot. I’ll… I’ll consider it, Draco.” His pallid brows knit as he queries, “Ms Granger – she means that much to you? I confess I thought she may be a passing fad that you needed to… work out of your system, as it were.”

 _Count to ten. Backwards. In French. Remember he is… still an arsehole, at times_. “Hermione is my world. I’ll thank you to speak of her with the utmost deference and consideration, or our nascent reconnection ends here.” Draco’s nostrils flare as he bites out the warning as calmly as he is able.

“My apologies,” Lucius stiffly appeases. “I will be respectful to– Hermione. Though I am displeased with that terrible appellation she has dreamed up.”

“What – ‘Lucy’?” Draco smirks as Lucius winces. “Apparently it’s a Muggle thing. She likes to shorten names as a sign of affection: Macdolas is now Mac, for example. You should be glad Hermione didn’t choose to call you ‘Luzza’ or ‘Lucky’.”

The taunt brings Lucius to his feet. “Draco! I must insist– ”

“Chill out, Lucy – I was teasing. Save your peeved sputterings for King Blizzard,” Draco snickers. “You’d best let Hermione call you whatever she wishes; it’s the least penance you can pay, considering what a shit you’ve been to her in the past.”

Grousing beneath his breath, Lucius resettles in his chair, making a production of fussing at the drape of his long black jacket. “I’ll hold my tongue. Well, off you go, son – there’s a valentine burning a hole in your pocket, if I’m not mistaken. Go read it in private, and leave me to my brooding.” The slight smile around the corners of Lucius’s proud mouth give Draco hope that his father may yet find a way past his despair.

Nodding, Draco makes a spontaneous suggestion before he departs the study for the sanctuary of his childhood bedroom.

“Father – perhaps you’d like to join me for a late afternoon tea in the library, in an hour? Ruibby baked a fresh batch of raspberry and white chocolate scones before she left to accompany Mother on their mysterious errand, and they smelled divine. Also, I’d like to ask you a few questions, about magical bonds.” He doesn’t realize he is holding his breath until Lucius waves a lackadaisical hand in acceptance of the offer.

“Delightful. I’ll be there. Enjoy your letter, son.”

* * *

‘ _Mon chéri_ Draco,

Thank you for your sublime letter, and my stunning cream rose. You spoil me rotten, and I never wish you to stop! I found a text on floriography in your bookshelves ( _sly fox_ ) and you should know that I am ‘thinking of you’, too. Always.

How are you? Are you getting enough sleep? Are you eating nutritious meals? Is Lucy still subdued?

I am well: but your absence has me moping about the townhouse like a stereotypical Gothic heroine, (impatiently) waiting for her rescuer to appear (pfft, what bollocks – though I am eager to engage him in another swordfight, if you catch my drift…).

But I digress. All sexual innuendo aside, I miss you. I did not believe I could feel this deeply (do you realize it’s not even been a month, since I crawled onto your front stoop?!?), but the truth is – I am counting the minutes until you come back home. You are my home, and I hope you are beginning to understand that immutable verity.

Mac is a doll, and his antics never fail to delight and amuse me. His outfit today is that of a British Bobby; I overheard him admiring his reflection in the hallway mirror as he told himself, “Ruibby does like an elf in uniform!”. With regard to your optimistic (read foolish) attempts to pass the burden of elven sex education to me – not a chance, buster. The explanation of the Hoo-hoos and the Hippogriffs is all yours, and you’d best move on it, Master Malfoy. You are the head of the Manor and I know you shall shoulder this responsibility with aplomb.

Your dream of us snuggling beneath a Hogwarts tree made me cry and smile simultaneously – you impossibly, gloriously romantic darling! I cannot wait until we can make your vision a reality. I never really allowed myself the luxury of imagining us together (all those years ago), but I will confess to enjoying some very… _interesting_ , very _explicit_ dreams about you once puberty struck. That is all I will say on the topic, though I might be persuaded to illuminate on those dreams once I finally don my old Gryffindor uniform? My cooperation in this matter is dependent on a certain sexy blond wizard digging out his old Slytherin Seeker’s kit, though. I have faith in your understanding and compliance, Malfoy.

You thanked me for accepting you – Draco, I thank you for taking me _just as I am_. And what’s more astonishing, and humbling, and simply wondrous is that you seem to like the qualities in me that others regularly find fault with. You support my bookishness, my obsessive curiosity, and my defiant obstinacy (yes, the last has caused us to disagree – but I know you are coming from a place of needing me to be safe. And you were right about that, but let’s not dwell overmuch on it). Not only are you worthy of me… you make me feel worthy of YOU. And yes, worthy of our future.

At the risk of sounding smug – ha, you know I am as smug as a bug in a rug right now! – I am thrilled that you and Harry have matured enough to put aside your old enmity and be civil and (dare I say it) supportive. Harry gently called me out when we were still pretending that we weren’t dating, and gave us his blessing. He’s a truly good person, and I think he might empathize more about living with others’ expectations and societal pressure than you realize. He never wanted to be ‘The Boy Who Lived’, you know. Thank you for giving him a chance.

Pansy didn’t just knock down Harry a peg or two, she snapped his mast and blew holes in his ship’s hull with her verbal cannons. It’s a shame I didn’t take a picture of Harry’s dumbstruck face, I know you would have enjoyed it.

Speaking of which, I must buy a camera (Wizardly or Muggle) and take as many snapshots of us as possible. I don’t even have a picture of you to moon over, do you know that? I have been reduced to smuggling the framed photograph of little Draco up to our bedroom, but I’d love a proper photo of you for my own.

Did the boys tell you how kind everyone was, vis-à-vis their impromptu support party last night? I had been dreading returning to an empty house without you; finding them all making themselves perfectly at home in your lounge room (Blaise having already raided the pantry and fridge) was a welcome surprise. Mac scolded him for his rank impertinence, and for using improper bowls and serving utensils – I think the latter may have been the greater infraction, in Mac’s view. We have fantastic friends, Draco. They love you very much – because you are lovable. Let their strength bolster your own, _mon coeur_. 

I am still practising my defensive training, don’t worry. I won’t be caught off-guard again. And do ease off on the gibes about Macdolas’s costumes, please… although I suspect he is upping the ante every time you snipe about it.

Draco, I would be honoured to meet Ewan, whenever you’re ready. I wouldn’t mind in the least about hearing of any highly embarrassing personal anecdotes about you – I feel that I am owed some reciprocity here, as Dad constantly waxes lyrical about my conception in the back seat of a Ford Cortina, for Godric’s sake. And you may dissent all you like, but I will be asking Ewan all about your ‘Hermione-based’ confessions. I look forward to it.

I’d best curtail my ramblings, as I am soon due to meet your mother on a certain important mission. I am hopeful you will appreciate the results of our mutual plotting. Mac and I will be busy with a few tasks this afternoon, and I am excited to tell you about our plans for tomorrow (but I will wait to explain until I see you again). Rest assured, I’m not going anywhere without my elfish bodyguard – not until my gorgeous boyfriend comes home to me.

This time apart leaves me aching for you, too; but I believe we will both be better for enduring it.

Please be safe, my darling, and remember that I am, and always will be,

Your Hermione.

PS if you did already have a camera, you could have immortalized Lucy’s virulent rant at King Blizzard for me! Do please invite me to the Manor for the next farcical episode. My money’s on the peacock.

H.J.G.’

Flopping back onto his ornate four-poster bed, Draco rests Hermione’s epistle against his hammering heart. The silly, joyous grin stretched across his face is in danger of making his jaw ache, but he has no desire to dial it down.

 _She misses me… she believes in me… she wants me. Hermione said I am lovable… LOVABLE._ Euphoria flows through his psyche like a burbling brook, washing away his long-embedded pains like tumbling pebbles. The impulse to Apparate back home immediately is nearly overpowering; Draco forces himself to settle.

_I’ve promised to take afternoon tea with Lucius, if only so I can quietly urge him to eat and drink something more substantial than half an orange and black coffee. And I do need to process the turmoil of the past few days on my own; much as I am willing to accept the assistance of my friends and family, I must approach my recovery as an individual, first and foremost. Or I’ll keep dragging my insecurities behind me like a broken carriage._

Gazing absentmindedly about his luxuriously-appointed old bedroom, Draco muses at how little the material trappings of wealth and prestige mean to him now. He grimaces as he recalls the many occasions when his insufferable child self demanded (and was usually given) the newest, brightest, and the best books, toys, clothing, sporting equipment, and whatever else his whims dictated.

Now, he would not exchange all the Galleons in the world for Hermione’s letter… for her tender, extraordinary heart.

Glancing at his silver wristwatch, he realizes with a start that he has spent most of the hour before afternoon tea reading and re-reading his first love letter from Hermione. “You sappy prat,” he says aloud, the rictus smile of pure felicity firmly back in position.

Crossing to the dark oak armoire at the foot of the bed, Draco crouches and rummages beneath old sports uniforms ( _I must remember to grab that Seeker’s gear before I go home_ ) until he uncovers a wooden cigar box. He flips it open and reverently places Hermione’s letter atop the other items already occupying the plain receptacle. A ‘S.P.E.W’ badge with its metal prong snapped off, a faded red velvet scrunchie, a first draft of a History of Magic essay written in Hermione’s energetic handwriting (he’d not been able to resist filching it when he’d stumbled upon it in the Hogwarts library one night), and a small stack of meticulously clipped newspaper articles.

Shutting the Spanish cedar lid, Draco pushes the box back beneath the folded clothing and closes the wardrobe.

Though the letter is now safely stowed in his old treasure box, the words Hermione has gifted him are etched upon his brain.

One phrase in particular continues to flutter around him like a Muggle aeroplane banner he’d once glimpsed above a country carnival.

‘You are my home’.

He skips down the stairs knowing that he is the luckiest wizard – nay, the most fortunate _man_ – in the cosmos.

* * *

**French translations:**

_bonne après-midi_ – good afternoon.

 _Ruibby est ravissante et de toute beauté. -_ Ruibby is a vision of beauty and glamor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody, I hope you are safe and well.
> 
> Thank you all so much for still reading, and for your wonderful reviews, and kudos.
> 
> Your ideas and questions are shaping this story with each chapter, and I am delighted and very grateful for your support.
> 
> For those of you who may be impatient for H&D to reunite - so am I!  
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoy their separate adventures, and romantic correspondence. I think I would faint dead away if I were ever to receive a pen and ink love letter inscribed on parchment, and with a red wax seal... my heart!
> 
> xoxo VJ.


	44. Rapprochement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to HarryPGinnyW4eva.  
> Thank you very much for your thoughtful, kind, and perceptive comments, even though I accidentally lured you here with the initial promise of a Hinny pairing (sorry!).  
> I very much appreciate you sticking with this story, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.  
> xoxo VJ.

__

_Sunday 16 March 2003: AM_

“Hallo, Mac – are you ready? I’m due there at half past ten and we still must walk in from Hogsmeade,” Hermione rounds the corner into the lounge room to discover Macdolas guiltily scrambling to move farther away from the television and VCR they’d imported from her flat yesterday evening. After much to-ing and fro-ing, they’d finally decided to move one of the retro sideboards closer to the couch and had positioned the compact electronic appliances atop it.

“Mac, dear – it’s better for your eyes to be seated at a goodly distance from the screen,” Hermione gently advises. Her Scottish steward’s pointy nose was practically touching the convex surface before she’d startled him.

“What are you watching, anyway?” Hermione suppresses a chuckle when she recognizes the little blue and white cartoon figures. “Smurfs? Oh, I used to watch them all the time when I was a kid! I wish I still had my figurines; they might be worth something by now,” she muses.

“Macdolas asks Her Grace Lady Granger: do the sweet wee Smurfs be elves? Where do they live? And why does the wizard Gargamel despise them so? The Azrael cat reminds Macdolas of the Crooky,” Mac is inching closer to the television again in rapt fascination.

“I’m sorry, Mac - they’re not real; but they’re fun to watch, aren’t they?” Hermione pats him consolingly on the back as his face falls. “Most of the shows on television are about made-up things... just like ‘Pride and Prejudice’, hmmm?”.

“Macdolas knows the Pride and the Prejudice is a book – Macdolas reads it in the Manor library,” he proudly imparts. “Ruibby says it be her favourite novel.”

 _Jane Austen-loving house elves... just fabulous_ , Hermione reflects.

“That’s lovely, Mac.” She finds the remote and turns off the television with a click. “Shall we Apparate now? Oh, my giddy aunt – are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?” Hermione almost chokes on an upswell of mirth as she takes full stock of Macdolas’s garb.

Nodding solemnly, Macdolas performs a graceful pirouette worthy of a Milan catwalk model, the miniature boy’s Gryffindor school uniform robes swirling around his scrawny body. “Macdolas pays his most profound respects to The Cherished Master Harry James Potter, Magnificent Auror and Lord of the Lightning Bolt, Redeemer and Protector of Humble House Elves– ”

“Right, right – you look fabulous, Mac,” Hermione interrupts before he can extol Harry’s virtues for the next five minutes. “Where did you manage to source that outfit, though?” she asks in puzzlement. _Surely the Muggle costumier doesn’t sell Hogwarts uniforms?_

Impossibly, the house elf’s bantam chest swells a little more as he gleefully replies, “His Excellency Harry Potter gives Macdolas an original uniform as a present of gratitude! Macdolas shrinks it to fit and merely procures the spectacles.” He pops the distinctive rounded lenses onto his face; he must have charmed them to enable the wire arms to hook securely behind his big ears. It is all Hermione can do not to laugh herself silly at the comical figure he presents.

 _Drat! Where’s a ruddy camera when you need one?_ Hermione vows to immortalize Macdolas’s comical tribute in some fashion or another before the day is out. _Draco HAS to see this for himself_ , she grins.

Pushing aside his wispy carroty hair, Macdolas points to his forehead. “The scar for authenticity, Her Grace! Macdolas knows the devil is in the details.”

“Indeed. Well, come along, Harry Potter Junior,” Hermione grasps his nubbly hand in her own and concentrates on their destination…

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t mind giving Mac the tour? I don’t mean to impose, and I would be happy to show him the castle myself once my interview with Professor McGonagall is over; but he is terribly excited about his first visit to Hogwarts, and it seems cruel to make him wait,” Hermione apologetically offers, as Hagrid and Luna alternately shake their heads and beam their willing smiles.

“Course not, Hermione! ‘He’s a righ’ cute little blighter, and we’d be honoured ter show him the ropes,” Hagrid’s teeth are nearly lost in the bushy expanse of his salt-and-pepper beard. “Yeh sure yeh’re alrigh’, love? Yeh look a mite sad round the edges,” Hagrid’s dark eyes are worried.

Hermione affectionately squeezes his brawny forearm. “I’m as healthy as a Hippogriff, Hagrid… I’m just missing Draco a bit,” she explains. _OK – missing Draco like crazy. Even though it’s only been two nights apart. Hopeless._

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” Luna assures. “Draco will be back in your bed before you know it, and you will celebrate your reunited love like two rabbits in oestrus.”

Poor Hagrid sputters something incomprehensible and pretends to be engrossed in re-stacking his dirty dishes as Hermione chokes on her own surprised expostulation. “Luna – I didn’t mean it like that, I was just saying– ”

Luna waves her delicate hand airily. “No need to be embarrassed: human sexuality (in its many forms) is a beautiful thing. Especially when two people adore each other… like you and Draco.”

 _Ah, hell. Not you too, Luna._ Hermione doesn’t know where to look as her neck and cheeks begin to crimson. She settles for hunching her shoulders, twisting her hands together, and staring at the floor.

“Hadn’t yeh best get a wriggle on, Hermione love?” Hagrid comes to her rescue. “Yeh don’ want ter keep the Headmistress waitin’ on yeh,” he prompts. “We’ll take good care o’ yer little man outside,” he jerks his head toward the clearing beyond the slightly grimy window, where a delighted Macdolas is busily chasing a patient Fang around the hut, in turn being stalked by a prowling Crookshanks.

“Yes – I’ll make my way to her office now,” Hermione smiles gratefully. She gives each of her friends a tender hug before she walks to the door. “I’ll come back to the hut and wait for you, if that’s alright? I thought that perhaps we could walk back to Hogsmeade together and have lunch at the Three Broomsticks? I promised Mac I’d let him loose in Honeydukes; I think he wants to buy out most of their stock to give to Ruibby.”

Luna and Hagrid acquiesce to her plan immediately. Hermione waves at Mac before picking her way up the familiar path to her alma mater. The spring day is chilly, but the skies are a clear pale blue, showcasing the medieval castle’s unique architecture and beauty. Though the battle-damaged exterior has been painstakingly restored, the contrast between old and new brickwork clearly shows, like scars that are yet to fade.

 _It’s been too long since I’ve visited_ , Hermione meditates, as she briskly makes her way through the Great Hall and onward to the Headmaster’s Tower. She politely nods to the students and teachers she passes, electing to ignore the not-so-hushed exclamations of wonderment. Once she has traversed the Corridor, she stops in front of the gargoyle guarding the mobile circular staircase. He raises a querying stone eyebrow at her presence, waiting for the password.

“ _Felis silvestris_ ,” Hermione confidently pronounces; Professor McGonagall owled her the code yesterday, along with her acceptance in granting Hermione an audience today. The term is the Latin name for the European Wildcat; unsurprising, given the Headmistress’s Animagus form and love of all things feline.

The gargoyle wordlessly steps aside, granting Hermione safe passage to Headmistress McGonagall’s office. She knocks on the door with a firm double-rap.

“Come in, Hermione,” and she complies.

The room she steps into evokes a rush of nostalgia and sorrow that Hermione is helpless to prevent. Headmistress McGonagall has clearly left her stamp of individuality upon the large circular space; but the gallery of portraits of past principals, the impressive library, and the Sorting Hat remind Hermione of the multitude of experience and learning that she underwent at the Wizardly boarding school. Professor Snape’s portrait hangs behind the Head’s desk, his habitually aloof, severe mien given added poignancy now that Hermione better understands the circumstances of his difficult life… and his sacrifices.

 _You’re not here for a trip down Memory Lane, woman._ She takes a few steadying breaths before moving toward the desk at which the Headmistress is currently seated. McGonagall rises, meeting Hermione halfway and shaking her hand with a firm, warm grip.

“Good morning, Hermione; it’s a pleasure to see you again. I must confess to being intrigued – and hopeful – after receiving your petition for an appointment?”. The Headmistress gets straight down to business. Her Scottish burr infuses her words with a pleasant, comforting lilt.

“Thank you very much for agreeing to meet with me, Headmistress McGonagall,” Hermione begins, moving to sit in the visitor’s chair and smoothing the skirt of her brown tweed suit beneath her, fussing at the middle button fastening her mahogany waistcoat.

“You may call me Minerva, dear – I think we’ve known one another long enough to now be on a first name basis,” the Headmistress decrees. “Besides: am I correct in assuming you are approaching me in a professional capacity? It will be perfectly acceptable to use each other’s Christian names in a collegial setting, I assure you.”

Hermione determinedly shoves aside any nerves she’s been harbouring about her request. “Yes – I wish to formally apply for the position of Arithmancy Professor… Minerva. Assuming it has not been filled, and that I prove myself worthy of the role, obviously.”

The Scotch witch’s shrewd blue-grey eyes twinkle. “Excellent news. The best I’ve received all week, in fact.” She peruses Hermione’s animated face with keen interest. “Before we commence the interview proper: may I ask how you are coping, my dear? Rubeus and Professor Lovegood have guaranteed that you are safe after your terrible ordeal, but I do have some concerns as to your motivations for applying for the vacant position.”

Hermione takes a moment to compose her reply. “I’m not running away from my problems, if that is what is troubling you, Minerva; I have been contemplating a change of career for some time.” It is the truth: even before Draco’s vehement assertions that she should not be mouldering in a stagnant, dead-end job, Hermione had been mulling over one of the sources of her pervasive discontent.

“While the recent assault at the Ministry has solidified my intention to work in a more meaningful field, it was not the sole impetus for my application,” Hermione continues. She hesitates, but decides to go with her gut in revealing a more personal incentive.

“I am sure you’ve read the salacious headlines the Prophet has been churning out, Minerva?”. The other woman nods. “Most of what it has printed lately is rumour-mongering trash, but I can confirm that I am in a committed relationship with Draco Malfoy. If that presents an insurmountable issue for you – or the Hogwarts administration – I regret that I must withdraw my job application immediately.” Hermione steadily holds Minerva’s intelligent gaze.

She is vastly relieved when the Headmistress simply irritably waves her hand. “I appreciate your forthrightness, Hermione – but your private life is your own. Granted, our teaching staff has traditionally remained (ostensibly) single, but I see no reason why that archaic custom cannot be challenged, and compromises possibly granted.”

Releasing a breath of relief, Hermione smiles widely.

“On a more particular note – I’ve long noted Mister Malfoy’s character potential. His lacklustre forced participation in the wickedness of Voldemort’s gang of Mahouns and lowlifes was evidence of his hidden good heart. Mister Malfoy used his Occlumency skills to protect the First Years that the Carrows forced him to practise the Cruciatus Curse on, did you know that?” McGonagall brusquely imparts.

 _What? Oh, Draco_ … Hermione shakes her head as her eyes moisten.

“Yes: during that dreadful period of fascist occupation, I carefully questioned the children in question while they were being treated for their injuries. Their stories varied little from recounting how their suffering was significantly dulled whenever young Draco was in the room, even when he wasn’t the one inflicting the curse. Apparently it felt as though ‘a heavy blanket swaddled them from the worst of the pain’,” Minerva describes.

Hermione jolts as she remembers experiencing an eventual similar sensation on the terrible occasion that Bellatrix Lestrange tortured and maimed her… _Did Draco protect **me** then? I thought it was just my mind trying to cushion me from an inevitable descent into madness!_ She bites her lip as she is torn between admiration and irritability at Draco’s secretiveness.

 _Bloody blond goose_. She files away the information to take Draco to task when he comes home.

Minerva adds, “I do hope Mister Malfoy hasn’t taken the Prophet’s smear campaign to heart, Hermione? You have my blessing to pass on my encouragement and approbation, if you wish.”

Hermione swallows the lump in her throat. “Thank you – I shall certainly tell Draco that. I appreciate your kindness, and your open-mindedness, Minerva… very much.” She shares a quiet moment of grateful kinship with her old mentor.

“Shall we proceed with the interview proper, Hermione? Let’s begin with a comprehensive list of your vocational and scholastic achievements; I am familiar with your many academic triumphs, but best to cover everything, for the record.”

Mouth pursed in concentration, McGonagall picks up a quill and dips it into a waiting inkwell, before poising it expectantly above a blank page of parchment.

Before she replies, a prickle of awareness settles upon Hermione; she flicks her eyes to the side, catching a cheery wink from Albus Dumbedore’s portrait. He tips down his head in benevolent acknowledgement and encouragement.

Hermione sends the likeness of the dear departed wizard a wink of her own, and begins her answer to Minerva.

* * *

Draco sits at his favoured cherrywood escritoire in the Manor’s library, shuffling together the loose pages of the project he’s been working on for the last two hours in order to clear a space to write his letter to Hermione. He briefly considers running upstairs to grab her original epistle to refer back to, but realizes he doesn’t need it; he has read and re-read it often enough in the last day to have memorized every word.

‘ _Ma petite_ Hermione,

How are you, my lovely little lioness? Are you looking after yourself, and are you well rested? You will be satisfied to learn that I have eaten three square meals, plus afternoon and morning teas, since my temporary sojourn at the Manor. I am sleeping reasonably well, despite the intolerable situation of not having my beautiful girlfriend tucked against me as I slumber.

I thank you for sending me your wonderful letter; you can have no idea what your sweet, sincere words mean to me. You were correct in telling me that working on boosting my self-esteem is something I need to address on my own, but Hermione – without your generous, unmitigated support and belief in me, I would not be ready to take that step. Your unconditional trust, respect, and regard has helped me to bridge the gap between my heart and my head. ~~I hope~~ I know I can learn to be the man you deserve, in all the ways you need. Thank you, _ma petite_. For everything.

Granger, rest assured that thoughts of our imminent reconciliation fill my waking moments (and a goodly portion of my slumbering ones). I have such fascinating, earthy, _downright filthy_ plans for you, my sexy little witch. Be prepared to be enthusiastically and thoroughly ravished upon my return…in all the English ways, and in quite a few French ones, as well. I am happy to provide translation for anything you have trouble understanding, and there is no substitute for hands-on learning and practical instruction, is there?

I have located and packed my Slytherin Seeker’s uniform, as per your instructions. I expect a strict account of the ‘interesting and explicit’ dreams you had of me at Hogwarts; it is only fair, considering how outrageously your not-so-innocent hints and allusions have raised my blood pressure and heartrate (and that is not even taking into consideration what the thought of you wearing your old Gryffindor uniform is doing to me). I full intend to make up for time wasted when we were a couple of bumbling teenage twits (yes, yes, I was the twit).

Macdolas is a vain, cheeky moppet who tries my paper-thin patience at the best of times; but he is firmly entrenched in our family unit, and you and I both know I would assist him in getting away with bloody murder if need be. I have decided upon an approach to giving the randy little rascal ‘The Talk’; I have been working upon it most of the morning, and I am confident you will think it an acceptable solution. I will show you what I mean when I come home. I saw straight through your buttering-up blandishments re my being the head of the Manor, of course. Close, but no cigar, Granger. 

Hermione, I would not change a single thing about you. I shan’t declare you to be perfect (though in fact, you _are_ ): but it is true that your little foibles and idiosyncrasies are incontestably endearing to me. Anyone who dares to claim that those aspects of your character require correction is a moron.

What if we procured both Muggle and Wizard cameras? I love the idea, and will look to source both immediately. On that topic – I would very much like to make some preliminary sketches of you, Granger. Both for drawings, and eventually for paintings – if you don’t mind, of course. If you’ve had another look through the studio (and you are welcome to), your razor-sharp wit has doubtless concluded that you have long been my Muse. But my memory does not do you true justice, and I wish to rectify that as soon as possible.

Our friends are indeed remarkable; but you are the glue that holds our social group together. I was so lonely before you came back into my life, Hurricane Hermione. I’d spent years thinking that solitude and rigid control were the only things keeping me from relapse and ruin; I can never thank you enough for bringing colour and joy and kinship back into my narrow little world.

My meeting with Ewan went well, though it was draining at times. I have been remiss in not ensuring my therapy needs are being met; it is something I am committed to keeping up, henceforth.

I invited Lucius to take afternoon tea with me yesterday; he was more candid in that hour than he has been in our entire past history. It was astonishing (albeit somewhat disconcerting) to be able to talk cautiously yet frankly with him about our chequered history. Mother wants him to see a Healer for his depression, and I believe he has finally accepted that he needs to address his problems. Salazar knows, they are many and varied, but I consider his newfound amenability to be a promising start.

I asked Father about our magical cores uniting (without going into detail about how that occurred, obviously. Though I think he may have guessed). Lucius said he had heard of rare occurrences of similar coalescence, and that it is considered ancient, spontaneous magic. Hermione – he told me something else that I would prefer to share with you in person. It’s not bad news, but it may shock you at first. It did me.

I read the Evening Prophet last night – thank you, Granger. You did not have to demand the retraction, but I greatly appreciate it (and your staunch support). Mother came back from the Prophet’s offices with the triumphant air of a Roman gladiator, and when Lucius asked what she’d been up to, she exultantly replied, “Hermione and I kicked Skeeter’s arse to the curb and left her crying for a taxicab!”. I would call you a terrible influence, but I believe you feed off each other’s malicious tendencies and powers. Also, I am justifiably frightened to cross either of you; together, you are nigh unstoppable. I’ll shut up now.

 _Ma petite_ , I miss you more than mere words can express. I was amazed when you pointed out it has only been a month since we reconnected. I have been waiting my entire life for you, and the days have flown by like minutes… but the minutes apart from you have crawled past like days. I cannot spend another night without you in my arms.

You are my home, my North Star, and my universe, Hermione Jean Granger.

I am, and always will be,

Your Draco.

PS I am coming home tonight, _ma petite_. Be ready.

D.L.M.’

* * *

_Sunday 16 March 2003: PM_

“Hand ‘em over, laddie – yeh’re leavin’ yerself no room for lunch, an’ yeh’ll be sorry fer it, Rosmerta always puts on a decent special,” Hagrid warns Macdolas as the house elf stuffs his cheeks full of Honeydukes’ finest lollies. He makes an abortive attempt to hide the rest of the sweets in his shrunken Gryffindor robes, but sheepishly hands over the packets of Tooth-Splintering Strongmints, Chocoballs, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Cockroach Clusters, and Mice Pops. Hagrid stows them in the outside flaps of his dun-coloured vest.

“I’ll look after ‘em fer yeh, Mac – but what’s that bag yeh’re still clutchin’?” he nods to Mac’s left hand.

“Ruibby’s favourite Jelly Slugs – Macdolas never touches a boon for his sweetheart!” the elf mumbles indignantly around a mouthful of processed sucrose.

“Righ’, righ’ – o’ course yeh wouldn’t,” Hagrid easily agrees. Luna and Hermione exchange an amused look as Hagrid reaches the entrance of the Three Broomsticks and gallantly holds open the door for the rest of their little party. “In yeh go, I’ll grab the firs’ round o’ Butterbeers while yeh have a gander at the menu, eh? There’s a table free in the corner, I’ll squeeze in beside lil’ Mac and we’ll be nice an’ cosy.”

The half-giant hurries to the bar, a huge grin suffusing his bearded face at Madame Rosmerta’s cheery greeting. She acknowledges the two young witches with a smile, and a wink for Macdolas, who immediately blushes and skips ahead.

Hermione worriedly whispers to Luna, “Do you think he’s had too much confectionary? I’ve never seen his eyes grow so large before – not even that night he got tipsy with us.”

Luna cocks her head to the side. “It’s possible Macdolas is especially susceptible to sugar, Hermione; I’ve seen it before in elves. Best to restrict his intake, and keep a close eye on him,” she briefs her friend.

“I’ll have to swap out his Butterbeer for a plain water… oh well, Hagrid won’t have any trouble downing it instead,” Hermione sighs. “I didn’t realize Mac was practically buying out the entire range, or I would have curtailed his overenthusiastic purchases.”

 _Ooh! Maybe I should tell him that Dad will have to perform Muggle dentistry if he fangs into too many sweeties… that might do the trick. No, that’s far too mean_. Hermione regretfully rejects the idea.

Luna and Hermione take the side of the table that faces the door; Mac jitters in the chair opposite them, craning his head to take in every last detail of the old pub’s homey interior. Hagrid slides in beside him, slopping a little Butterbeer foam onto the scarred wooden table as he plonks down their beverages.

Before Macdolas can reach for his ale and begin slurping, Hermione hovers her hand over it and apologetically announces, “I’m sorry, Mac – you’re having water for the rest of our outing, please. We’re concerned that you’re having an adverse reaction to all the candy you’ve gobbled, and it would be negligent of me to not ensure you’re whole and healthy, little mate.”

She pushes his stein to Hagrid, ignoring Mac’s sullen little face. “I’m going to get you a glass of water instead; I’ll be right back.” Hermione hurries to the bar and politely requests the replacement drink from Rosmerta.

Turning with the tumbler in her hands, she almost drops it as she spies the red-haired newcomers entering the inn.

 _Oh, shit_. Hermione freezes, hoping against hope that she has not yet been spotted, and can somehow slink back to her seat without having to endure an awkward conversation.

“Hello, Hermione,” the female half of the sibling pairing acknowledges.

_Nope. No such luck. We’re doing this now, then._

“Hello, Ginny. Ron,” Hermione plasters on a non-committal smile. “What brings you here?”

Ginny pushes slightly ahead of her brother. “Ron’s been miserably haunting the house lately; Mum ordered me to take him out for lunch. And it’s always a cheap eat here, right? Care to join us, Hermione?” she sounds sincere in her cautiously friendly invitation.

“Oh, um – I’m here with Luna and Hagrid, actually. And Macdolas, we’ve just shown him around Hogwarts, and Honeydukes – well, Hagrid and Luna took him around the castle, I was busy – Mac’s my… our… Mac’s our house elf, well, he’s kind of my bodyguard at the moment, I mean– “

Her redheaded former bestie interrupts her nervously babbled rejoinder. “It’s fine, Hermione. You don’t have to explain. Just thought I’d ask. We’ll leave you to it.” Ginny’s tight smile doesn’t quite reach her almond brown eyes. Ron hasn’t said a word yet; his mouth is downturned and his posture stiff.

“Wait. Would you like to sit with us, instead? We can push over the adjoining table, and we haven’t yet ordered. I mean, if you want – no pressure.” _Oh. My. Goddess. Stop wittering on, you ninny!_

“Sounds good,” Ron’s gruff acceptance surprises both women. “After you,” he sweeps his big hand out for them to precede him.

Being in the lead, Hermione is able to mug a few frantic faces at Luna, who blessedly gets the hint and helps Hagrid to rearrange the seating arrangements. Luna rises from her chair to allow Hermione to give Mac his water and slip into the far corner, while greetings and introductions are traded.

“Ron, Ginny – it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my dear friend Macdolas,” Hermione begins, startled as Mac jumps up to stand on his chair.

“Free Elf Macdolas of the Clan Fhionnlaigh, now proud major-domo of the House of Granger-Malfoy and Chief Security Advisor to Her Grace Lady Granger!” he brusquely adds, glowering at Ron with particular disfavour.

“Macdolas – what’s gotten into you?” Hermione hisses, sotto voice. “You’re being rude to my friends.”

“’The House of Granger-Malfoy’, huh?” Ron slowly repeats. Hermione draws a sharp breath, preparing for some form of insult to follow. She is shocked when Ron tilts back his auburn head and laughs throatily.

“Macdolas – are you dressed as Harry Potter? Good for you,” he chuckles. “This alone was worth the trip to Hogsmeade.”

Macdolas’s antagonism visibly reduces, as he plucks an imaginary piece of lint from his black robe. “His Excellency Harry Potter bequeaths Macdolas his fine uniform: Macdolas takes delight in paying homage to the Secondary Leader of the Golden Trio,” he touts.

“Who’s the Primary Leader, Macdolas?” Ginny queries with a raised eyebrow and the hint of a smirk on her mouth.

“Her Grace Lady Granger, of course – Her Grace is the brains, His Excellency the heart,” Mac readily supplies.

“What does that make me, then?” Ron huffs. “Chopped liver?”.

Macdolas takes a moment to consider. “Master Weasley is the brawn?” he offers, grinning smugly as everyone but Ron and Hermione smiles or chortles at his quip.

Luna pats the grumpy Gryffindor’s arm consolingly. “Don’t worry, Ronald; boars are good-tempered, kind-hearted, positive, loyal, strong, and possess excellent appetites,” she observes. “It’s truly a compliment, you know.”

“Apologize, please, Mac – Ron is not stupid, and there is no need to insult him in order to underline your loyalty to Draco,” Hermione quietly requests. “Being ill-mannered for the sake of a cheap joke is rather badly done of you.”

She maintains steady eye contact with the now-sulking elf until he mutters, “Macdolas is sorry for calling Master Weasley brawny,” and sits back down in his chair with a flump.

Ron ignores the flimsy apology as he looks straight down the table at Hermione. “It’s true, then? You and Malfoy are an item?”. Hermione hears her companions holding their breath as the tension instantly ratchets.

She folds and unfolds her arms, striving not to sound defensive as she calmly replies, “Yes – Draco and I have been dating for a month. Is there something you wish to say about that, Ronald?”.

The pause that ensues is long and fraught. “Are you happy, Hermione? With – with him? And… are you alright, like – physically? Harry told me the bare bones about what happened to you – but… you know, we’ve all been worried,” Ron finally speaks. His aquamarine eyes appear weary and sad as they meet her topaz gaze.

Hermione nods vigorously. “Yes, I am. Very happy. I’ve recovered fully from my injuries, yes. And I hope you don’t believe everything you read in the Prophet – they did a real number on Draco.”

Ginny leans forward from her seat beside Luna. “Malfoy _is_ an alcoholic, though?”. She puts up a conciliatory hand as Hermione draws a sharply indignant breath. “Sorry – I just meant, I didn’t realize he’d been that deeply affected… with the War, and everything. It was eye-opening, actually.”

“You know Slytherins are people too, right?” Hermione struggles to keep her temper leashed. “Snape, Slughorn, Regulus Black… Narcissa and Draco – we would have lost the War against Voldemort before it even began, were it not for their actions and sacrifices. Even Lucius walked away, rather than fight.”

Ron pipes up. “You’re in pretty tight with the Malfoys, Hermione? First name basis already? Seems like bloody quick work, if you ask me.” Macdolas growls something incomprehensible beneath his breath but refrains from any further reaction when Hermione shoots him a remonstrative glance.

“I call him Lucy, now,” Hermione delights in correcting. “He’s not the irredeemable scoundrel he was; he’s now somewhat pitiful… diminished. Oh, he’s still a jerk, but his rank pomposity has been well and truly corralled.” 

Hagrid has been hunched at the end of the table during their increasingly strained conversation; he makes a valiant attempt to steer their interactions into safer waters.

“I reckon it’s pas’ time we ordered, I can hear wee Mac’s belly growlin’ fer proper sustenance from here,” he rumbles. “I’ll be havin’ the bangers an’ mash – what’re the rest of yeh thinkin’?”.

 _Bless you, Hagrid._ Hermione bequeaths him a heartfelt smile of gratitude for his peacekeeping efforts. _But why did I feel compelled to make nice with the Weasleys? I blame Dad – he hammered the importance of politeness and hospitality into me ever since I was a little kid. Ironic, considering how tactless Dad can often be._

Everyone bar Luna chooses the same starchy British classic dish; the blonde Ravenclaw opts for the home-made pumpkin soup and buttered rye rolls.

“I’ll place our order – and it’s my treat,” Hermione is itching to gain a little distance from the crowded tables. She can’t help but feel dismayed when Ginny hops up too.

“I’ll give you a hand.” The athletic young witch easily falls into step beside her as Hermione walks briskly back to the bar. It takes but half a minute to relay their food requests to Rosmerta; Hermione makes to return to their party, but Ginny’s freckled hand on her forearm stops her in her tracks.

“Hermione – can we talk? It won’t take long, I promise. I have a few things I’d like to say to you.”

 _Huh_. Hermione tries to curtail her flinch at the memory of their last bitter discourse.

Ginny’s characteristic straightforwardness hasn’t deserted her, judging by the next words dropping from her tense lips.

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you, last year. I had no right to accuse you of the things I did – and to side with Ron when you guys broke up. I was struggling to deal with the breakdown of my own relationship with Harry… it’s no excuse for my poor behaviour, but I lashed out at you and I shouldn’t have. Sorry, Hermione,” Ginny fiddles with the tail of her dark auburn plait as she awaits Hermione’s response.

“I accept your apology, Ginny. I’m sorry for the harsh things I said back to you; I shouldn’t have called you immature, or jealous to the point of unhealthy obsession,” Hermione returns the apology, and tentatively pats Ginny’s shoulder. “I hope you know – there’s never been anything romantic between me and Harry, right? He’s always been the brother I’ve never had.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ginny sighs. “It wasn’t about you, Hermione – it was about me, and my insecurities. I always felt left out of the Golden Trio’s tight-knit bond, and then with Harry basically being treated like a Muggle rock star after the War… I kind of lost it. And you bore the brunt of that, which I deeply regret.”

Hermione shrugs, conscious that a long-held weighty sadness has been vanquished with Ginny’s sincere apology. “I wasn’t happy with my own life either, Ginny; it took being drugged and almost kidnapped by rapists for me to wake up to that fact. I appreciate that you’ve had the courage to approach me – I figured I was persona non grata at The Burrow now.”

Shaking her head in quick negation, Ginny divulges, “Mum and Dad have always stuck up for you, even through the worst of Ron’s moping and my petty jealousies. Mum was mostly disappointed she wouldn’t be having you for a daughter-in-law, but she always has maintained Ron was lucky you gave him the time of day in the first place,” she chuckles.

“Are they well, your parents? And the rest of the family?” Hermione presses. She has keenly felt the loss of the sprawling Weasley clan in her life since her uneasy split from Ron.

“Yeah, they’re fine. Bill and Fleur had a minor separation – but it only lasted about six hours. Bill came back to The Burrow just long enough to instigate a knock-down, drag-em-out fight with Ron and gave him a black eye for his birthday… oh, and he tricked Ronniekins into climbing a tree in the nude, stole his clothes and wand, and left him to make his own half-drunken way home. Ron refuses to tell us exactly what happened, but he rolled in the next day wearing an expensive throw rug and a face like a slapped arse,” Ginny’s laughs merrily. “He’s been almost tolerable ever since.”

“Thanks, Ginny. I’m glad we’re not at odds any longer.”

“Me too. Thanks, Hermione. Maybe – not right now, but soon – we could meet up, for dinner? Or when you next visit with Luna?” Ginny asks hesitantly.

“I’d like that, Ginny.”

They wend their way back to their group, and the rest of their luncheon passes without incident, though Hermione catches Macdolas openly throwing contemptuous looks in Ron’s direction on more than one occasion. _At least his lolly high has eased. Draco is going to scold Mac terribly once I tell him about him gorging on sweets._ She tucks in a smile at the thought.

Hermione isn’t aware she has fallen into a little Draco-centric reverie until Ginny and Ron stand up to depart. She rises to her feet as Ron shuffles closer, looking sheepish. He digs in his pocket and thrusts a crumpled, folded note into her surprised hand.

“I wrote this a while back, but I wasn’t sure about sending it – look, it’s up to you if you wanna read it or not, alright,” Ron mumbles. “Take care of yourself, Hermione. I’m glad – I’m glad you’re happy.” He waves jerkily at everyone and bolts for the door; Ginny rolls her eyes and completes her goodbyes before following him.

“It’s healthy to be able to cleanse our auras of bitterness and rue, isn’t it?” Luna quietly remarks, as she helps a sleepy-eyed Macdolas to manoeuvre his bloated body around the table and toward the exit. “It was kind of you to make the overture to them, Hermione. Ginny’s been wanting to make amends for a while, now. Thank you for being the bigger person.”

“Well, I think I just panicked, Luna,” Hermione hedges. “And Ginny asked me to join them first.”

Luna smiles her ethereal smile. “Still, you met each other halfway; and even Ronald seemed to have gained some perspective. He hardly brooded at all, really.”

Macdolas’s exaggeratedly scornful sniff to express his poor opinion of the copper-haired Gryffindor wizard causes the two witches to look at each other and chuckle.

“Yeh’re a salty little scallywag, Macdolas,” Hagrid affectionately claps his bear paw onto the elf’s back and nearly sends him airborne. “Mebbe yeh should focus on digestin’ for the time bein’, instead o’ worryin’ ‘bout young Ron,” he chides.

Hermione stows Ron’s unexpected missive in her jacket before grabbing for her cranky little bodyguard’s hand.

“Come on, Mac. You’ve had a big day. Time to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - the Reunion!


	45. Réunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @sweeteangel1.
> 
> Her inspired, brilliant and utterly magnificent French suggestions and translations powered this instalment - I have been hoarding them like a greedy dragon sitting on a pile of gold for ages, and I am thrilled to finally be able to share her mastery of the French language with you. 
> 
> And her linguistic expertise isn't limited to French: she has gifted me plenty of English gems, too.
> 
> Sweeteangel1, I can never thank you enough for your generosity and patience. 
> 
> I truly appreciate all your help and kindnesses.
> 
> xoxo VJ.

__

_Sunday 16 March 2003: PM_

Hermione mentally runs through her ‘Things to Do Before Draco Comes Home List’ one more time:

_Still-groggy house elf warned to make himself scarce once the Floo signals Draco’s return? Check._

_New sheets on the bed? Check._

_Energy bar and water consumed? Check._

_Unwanted body hair depilated? Check._

_Hair shampooed and conditioned? Check._

_Copious quantities of detangling oil sleeked through blow-dried hair? Check._

_Skin exfoliated to within an inch of its life and fragrant moisturizing cream applied? Check._

_Favourite tea rose perfume spritzed on pulse points? Check._

_Teeth brushed and flossed, and strawberry lip gloss slicked onto mouth? Check._

_Sexy lingerie chosen and donned? Check._

_Otter kimono strategically hiding said sexy lingerie until it's ready to be unwrapped? Check._

_Pretty high heels strapped on pedicured feet? Attempted and abandoned due to inability to walk more than three steps without twisting ankle. Crossed out._

_Contraceptive spell cast? Check…_

“What am I missing? I know there was something else…” Hermione grumbles out loud, pacing around the bedroom in a bootless attempt to burn off some of her nervous energy. Her anticipation of the night ahead is reaching epic proportions… and daylight is still burning.

_Take some deep breaths. Count to one hundred in French. No, don’t think about French, that will get you het up again. Count to one hundred in Spanish. Scratch that, you only know the numbers from one to twenty... Wait, what have I forgotten, again?_

“Hungry Hairy Hippogriffs – get a grip on yourself, woman!” Hermione sits down on the big bed, jumps up, fluffs the pillows, sits down again and wonders if she looks as berserk as she feels. She cocks her head as a familiar hum sounds downstairs, followed by a startled (human) male expostulation.

 _Yes! He’s early!_ Hermione gallops to the landing and is doubly glad she decided against the lovely but impractical high-heeled mules when she misses a step or three in her hasty descent of the staircase. Her bare feet somehow find purchase and she nearly collides with Draco as she rushes into the lounge room; he wastes no time in effortlessly lifting her into his arms, firmly wrangling her bare legs around his waist as he laughs at her joyous shrieks and giggles.

“Granger– I did not realize your defensive training had extended to full-body tackles! Do not hurt yourself, darling. _Ma petite lionne, tellement belle, si précieuse et douce._ Merlin, how I have missed you!”. Draco punctuates each phrase with a hungry kiss to her jaw, neck, ears, cheeks, and finally her willing lips.

Hermione whimpers into his pliant mouth, grateful for Draco’s big strong hands cupping and supporting her buttocks as tingles of almost unbearably intense sensation ricochet throughout her nervous system. _How can every kiss somehow feel deeper, fiercer, more vivid and acute, than the ones that preceded it? I never want to let this man go!_

Splaying his fingers, Draco begins to rhythmically squeeze her bum; she instantly responds by eagerly grinding her pelvis against his grey wool trousers. The split-open dark fuchsia otter kimono does little to disguise their frantic movements as her handsome blond boyfriend yanks her body even closer.

Such is their passionate embrace, Hermione entirely forgets their elfish audience until Mac shrills, “May Macdolas be excused? Master Malfoy tells Macdolas ‘no handsies below waisties’ but Master blatantly disregards his own advice!”. The mannikin’s petulant aggravation at the double standard rings clearly.

Stifling a chuckle at Mac’s interruption, Hermione hides her head against Draco’s neck; her boyfriend breaks their lip-lock to reprove his major-domo.

“Macdolas, you’re bloody lucky I am feeling so euphoric right now – your hideous outfit alone is a sackable offence,” Draco chides. “Begone with you – I promised Ruibby I’d send you back to the Manor, as she has planned out a big date for your evening. And take off those preposterous spectacles, I know for a fact your vision is twenty-twenty. Harry-sodding-Potter, indeed.” He shakes his platinum head in disgust.

Clapping his hands together upon hearing the news of his scheduled rendezvous with Ruibby, Macdolas responds to Draco’s command by deliberately pushing the controversial round-lensed glasses farther up his sharp nose with an elongated middle finger.

“Don’t be too hard on him – we ran into Ron and Ginny when we sat down to lunch at The Three Broomsticks, and Mac took an instant dislike to Ron,” Hermione confesses. “Mac told Ron he rated third in the Golden Trio rankings, and even compared him to pig meat. He made his loyalty to you obvious to the point of blatant rudeness… and he was dreadfully hopped up on a sugar overload – we stopped at Honeydukes along the way.”

She worries at her sensitive lower lip as Draco’s eyes briefly narrow and darken, relieved when he merely curls his upper lip and announces, “Macdolas – you’re getting a bonus. Provided you don’t spend it on lollies, you gluttonous little guts-ache. Go on, you don’t want to keep your sweetheart waiting,” he urges.

“And Mother is going to be keeping an eye on you two from a distance – Ruibby’s set up your supper picnic in the conservatory, apparently – so keep your… physical interactions ‘light’, shall we say. Tomorrow you and I have matters to discuss, little mate,” Draco sternly informs.

Gulping a little, Macdolas nods his acquiescence. “May Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger have a blessed, _fecund_ evening,” he imparts, before he Apparates with a snap of his nimble fingers.

Hermione laughs heartily at the affronted look on Draco’s face as he registers Mac’s sassy riposte.

“Dragon’s balls – that ruddy imp is becoming more overtly brassy by the day,” Draco breathes. “The bare-faced cheek of the wretch!”.

Touching her trembling right hand to Draco’s jaw, Hermione delights in the feel of his clean-shaven skin against her palm. “Forget about Mac… we’ve better things with which to occupy our time, Malfoy.”

She slowly drags her hand from his ear to his mouth, softly tracing the shape of the aperture with her fingertips, using her middle finger to slightly part his beautiful lips. Draco shudders at her dainty touches, his graphite eyes aflame and tracking her every move.

“Draco – take me to bed, _mon coeur. S’il te plait, j’ai tellement besoin de toi._ ” Hermione repeats her request in English. “I need you so much… please.”

“Fucking hell, I may not make it up the stairs if you continue to say things like that,” Draco mutters. “Hold onto me tightly and close your eyes.”

Obeying immediately, Hermione comprehends Draco’s intent only after he has Apparated them straight up to their bedroom. She shucks off any residual dizziness as soon as Draco throws her down onto the wide bed. Bouncing a little, Hermione puffs out a snicker and tries to sit up; Draco wags his finger as he gently returns her to horizontal, his warm hand on her belly making her loins clench as he holds her in place from his bent-over posture at the foot of the bed.

“Lie quietly for a moment, _mon sexy petit chaton_ ,” he swiftly unties the silk sash at her waist, carefully spreading the sides of her exquisite robe without touching her heated flesh. His harsh inhalation at the sight of her jet-black lacy bra and knickers makes her inner vixen sing a song of smug gratification.

 _I’m glad Pansy and Luna made me buy these, too… even though they yet seem devilishly meagre in terms of actual coverage._ Judging by the way Draco’s eyes are flashing silver, he has no complaints in that department.

“ _Tu me rends tellement dur… Je veux t'attacher et te faire hurler pour moi_ ,” he growls, his hands twitching in tiny quick jerks before he fists them back at his sides.

Hermione ignores Draco’s earlier directive not to move, propping herself on her elbows as she insists, “Draco Lucius Malfoy, if you don’t translate your French, I will be forced to leave to grab my English/French pocket dictionary and do it myself.” She squeals in a mixture of amusement and excitement as his left hand circles around her right ankle to jerk her closer. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Hermione Jean Granger. You want me to translate? Not a problem.” Keeping his long pale fingers chained around her ankle, he bends her knee upward and outward, the better to expose her scantily-covered sex to his hot gaze.

“I said: you make me so hard… I want to tie you up and make you scream for me. I see the idea excites you, _ma petite_. You are in danger of wriggling yourself off the bed.” Draco slides his hand from her foot, up her calf, his touch feather light as he continues along her sensitive inner thigh, all the way to her mons. He rubs large circles around her quivering flesh, teasing her by not stroking where she most desires his touch.

“Malfoy – are you going to just rile me up with your petting, or do you intend to put your money where your mouth is?” Hermione grumbles, raising her hips to chase his fluttering fingers before he suddenly cups her firmly.

“Patience. Have you worn this lingerie for any other man?” Draco’s eyes contain a feral, possessive gleam, and his voice is little more than a rasp. His thumb unerring presses down onto her aching clit as Hermione releases a helpless moan of pleasure. “Answer me.”

“No – no – only for you,” she cries, as he hovers above her. “I bought this when I went shopping with Luna at Pansy’s boutique.” _He’s jealous – maybe I shouldn’t have told him about running into Ron – but I don’t want him to think I still have feelings for my ex-boyfriend…_

“Good. I won’t have to rip them off you… though tearing off your knickers is something I shall keep in mind for later, my sexy little witch. _T_ _u es la mienne_ _,_ Hermione. You are mine now, do you understand?” he husks.

“ _Tu es à moi aussi maintenant,_ Draco,” Hermione growls the reciprocal claim. “Do _you_ understand?”.

“Always – and I am going to put my mouth where my greatest treasure is– ” his cryptic warning is swiftly followed by Draco yanking her to the very edge of the bed, lewdly spreading her legs, and kneeling in front of her. He hooks her legs over his shoulders, applying his mouth to her lace-covered mound and expertly mouthing at her pudenda through the flimsy fabric.

Scrabbling at the white bedding beneath her with both hands, Hermione struggles to process the overload of heady sensation. _The girls were right… this expensive, skimpy set’s value is inversely proportional with regard to the scant quantity of material and the superb quality of its effect._ Draco kisses her again and she loses the ability to think in anything other than delirious snippets of primal language.

 _Want – need – touch me –_ “More, more!” Hermione pleads, thrusting as best she can as Draco holds her legs apart with his spread fingers on the inside of her upper thighs. He responds by scraping his teeth over her wet panties, slipping his thumbs beneath the elasticized sides to pull apart her nether lips and open her inner folds beneath the lace. Her damp penny-brown curls are already glossy with arousal.

“Unghh…” Gesturing helplessly, Hermione barely recognizes the moans and mewls coming from her own mouth as Draco _finally_ moves the tiny scrap of gusset to one side and slicks his tongue flat against her clitoris, testing her wetness and readiness with the middle and fore-fingers of his left hand before slipping them slowly inside her warm channel. He swipes her swollen pink core again and again, his fingers sliding in and out in perfect time with his tongue’s laves.

Draco pauses, briefly raising his head as she chirps in protest. “ _Quand j’en aurai finis avec toi ne pourras plus former de phrases_ … Which is to say… when I am finished with you – you won't be able to form sentences.”

“Already… there… _More_ … _harder_ …” Hermione pants, snagging a hank of Draco’s silken white-blond locks in her grasping fingers; she shamelessly tugs his head back down to the juncture of her thighs. His low, delighted chuckle reverberates against her tingling skin as he applies himself diligently to his allotted task. He slides in a third finger, murmuring a soft question of acceptance as she fervently nods and babbles her consent.

Draco’s even white teeth find her pearled bud and bite it delicately. He releases her nubbin only to swirl his tongue around it, and suckles strongly. Hermione digs her bare heels into his back and squeezes her legs around his head as she feels her climax roaring closer.

“Draco – don’t stop – I’m close – please–” she sobs the last, feeling the first wave of euphoria crashing down upon her shuddering body. He complies without question, tunnelling his fingers in urgent thrusts and mouthing at her clit and mons with deep, open-mouthed sucks. Hermione repeatedly cries his name as her orgasm rocks her ever higher; her eyes close of their own accord as tiny zinging dots illuminate the darkness behind her eyelids.

Draco gentles the motion of his mouth and hand as Hermione slowly tumbles down from her full-body high. He bestows one last tender kiss on her soft crease and unwraps her tangled legs from his neck and shoulders.

 _Oh, my glorious, gilded gooseberries_ … Hermione is vaguely aware she is thinking utter nonsense, but her neural pathways are frizzing and whizzing around like Catherine Wheels at a fireworks display. _Well, Draco did warn me to be ready... I was not expecting **that**. Remind me again why the hell we deprived each other of this ecstasy for the last two days?!? _

“Granger? Are you still alive?” Draco’s smoky voice is accompanied by the sounds of divestment as he quickly disrobes, hurling his black long-sleeved shirt, dark grey trousers and loose cotton boxers in the direction of the armchair behind him; his shoes and socks and belt end up somewhere nearer the bathroom door.

Hermione turns languidly on her side as Draco lies down beside her, her cocoa eyes drawn to his rampant erection. Draco takes himself in hand, unashamedly rubbing his left palm over his reddened, bulbous tip as he watches her with hooded charcoal eyes.

Draco uses his free hand to pop her high, round breasts free of the transparent black triangles with their decorative lower frills and beribboned lacings. He licks the tips of his thumb and index finger before he rubs it over her burgeoning nipples, tugging them into tighter dark pink buttons.

He croons, "Hermione, _tu es tellement belle quand tu jouis pour moi_ … you look so beautiful when you come for me, _ma petite. Me laisseras-tu jouir sur tes beaux seins, chérie_? Will you let me come on your beautiful breasts, sweetheart?”.

Hermione whips her head back and forth in negation, hurrying to assure him as his face falls, “No – because I want to feel you coming inside me, Draco. I want to feel your big hard cock shuttling in and out of my pussy – like your fingers, but completely stretching me, filling me– I don’t want you to hold back.”

She adds her smaller hand to his, thrilling at how his heavy phallus bobs eagerly at her slightest touch. Emboldened, she knocks Draco’s hand aside and concentrates on slicking her fingers and palm with his pre-ejaculate before gripping and rolling her hand up, down, and around his engorged length.

It is Draco’s turn to groan and clutch at the rumpled ivory coverlet as Hermione exults in the effect her manual stimulation is having upon her characteristically cool, calm, and collected lover. He is panting raggedly, his hair is a damp, wild shock (admittedly, most of his disordered coiffure is the result of her grabbing limbs), and he is spasmodically rutting into her hand with every firm stroke and drag.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Hermione prompts, staggered at how swiftly her libido has reignited since her splendid apogee minutes earlier. She pinches together her thighs, seeking to mitigate the renewed thumping pulse at her centre.

Draco takes away her hand, lacing it with his as he rolls to his knees and helps strip off her elegant pink kimono, his mouth scrupulously plying kisses to each inch of revealed skin as he frees her arms from the belled sleeves. Hermione folds her wobbly legs beneath her to assist in tugging the fine silk dressing gown loose and letting it slither to the floor. Wedging his fingers beneath the intricately patterned filigree lace at her sides, Draco snaps her fancy knickers down her legs and sends them flying; his eyes widen at the sight of her wet pussy, now laid bare.

Facing each other, Draco sits back on his heels, encouraging Hermione to straddle his lap by beckoning her closer and smiling his wickedly irresistible slow smile.

“Come here - _Tu m’as tellement manqué pendant que j’étais pas là..._ Hermione, I ached for you while I was gone. Let me kiss you, _ma petite_. Please,” he entreats, as she enthusiastically crawls closer and positions her legs outside his narrow hips and sinewy thighs. His tumescent cock grinds against her naked sex, making her keen.

She avidly complies with his request, sealing her mouth to his in a long, liquid kiss as Draco enfolds his arms around her back, chafing his hard, budded nipples against her afferent breasts. He rocks her slowly up and down, hissing as his big dick undulates through her damp folds.

“Draco, please – please – I need to feel you inside me,” Hermione implores, shifting impatiently as every controlled stroke nudges his bellend tantalizingly nearer to her tight passage, before gliding upward again and smoothing along her clitoris.

“Like this?” Draco tows her pelvis another half-inch closer, until his rigid staff breaches her opening; he waits for her jerky nod before he seats himself inside her in one rough thrust. Hermione moans at the rapturous sensation, her inner walls fluttering and constricting as he adjusts her on his lap, before beginning to move in a powerful rhythm. She matches him stroke for stroke, bearing down as their flesh loudly slaps together.

" _J'adore la manière dont tu te tortilles sur ma bite_ ,” Draco rumbles. "I love the way you squirm on my cock, Hermione. Tell me – tell me what you want, what you need, I will give it to you, I will give you everything I have–"

“You – I only need you, Draco – oh, god, please, please don’t stop, keep fucking me, _harder_...” she gasps, adding a little twist to the end of her bump and grind that makes him grunt and swear

" _Ta chatte me rend fou_ – your pussy drives me crazy! Fuck me, Hermione – don't fucking stop, my perfect, beautiful, sexy woman– feel what you do to me–" he surges ever more powerfully, snapping his hips on each upstroke as she energetically wails in uninhibited delight.

Their smooth rhythm has devolved into a feral, primal rut. Hermione hangs on for dear life as Draco jostles her up and down his tumid girth with increasing ferocity. Her eyes are locked with his, their pupils blown and their breathing harsh and shallow. They swap biting, messy kisses as they climb to pinnacle together.

“Draco, I’ve never – it's never – only you, only you make me feel like this – I want you so much, mm–my Draco,” Hermione chokes out semi-incoherently, feeling overwhelmed with the forcefulness of the overflowing sensations and the sheer depth of emotion she is experiencing. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes, silently slipping down her cheeks as she senses her second mind-blowing culmination is imminent.

“My Hermione - don’t cry, _ma petite, ma chérie, mon cœur et mon âme_ \- I have you, sweetheart, I have you–" Draco stutters. “I have you.”

Bracing his forearm around her waist, Draco shimmies his left hand betwixt their bodies and strums her clit with fast, hard flicks; it is the final stimulus she needs to topple into bliss. She convulses around him as Draco screams her name, shaking as he tightens his grip on her midriff. The semi-darkness of the room lights up with now-familiar firefly sparks as their magical cores meld, twining together like vines searching for the sunlight.

She cannot help but cry in earnest at the extraordinary wonder of the experience, snuffling into Draco’s neck as he pets her back and rains kisses against her long, loose curls. He hums comfortingly as she uses their telepathic link to explain.

**_I’m crying because I’m so happy._ **

**_I know. So am I._ **

“You are?” Hermione lifts her head, surprised to see that Draco is indeed leaking a little salty water; he makes no attempt to wipe away his tears as he smiles radiantly. _Damn – I am so soft for this stunning wizard._

“Of course. How could I not? I am back in the arms of my gorgeous – _mwah_ – smart – _mmm_ – hot-as-sin – _mmmphff_ – beautiful girlfriend,” Draco pecks a kiss to her plump mouth between each adjective.

He winks as he slowly pushes his still-hard cock a little deeper. “Not to mention – I am buried deep in your glorious pussy, ma petite.”

Hermione groans at the delicious after-shock he sets off, before lightly smacking his muscled shoulder. “You’ve such a dirty mouth, Malfoy!”.

“I did not hear you complaining when I applied it to your sopping wet pussy, Granger.” He curtails her protesting reply by toppling them back onto the bed, laughing as her nose abuts his ear.

“It’s just as well you’re so sexy,” Hermione mock-grouches as they clumsily worm their way up to the pillows; they finally uncouple as Draco clamps his arms around her spent form, tucking her hair away from her face and behind her right ear.

“It is, isn’t it?” he facetiously agrees, chuckling as she tickles beneath his armpits as punishment. He squashes her against his chest to curb her titillation.

Hermione sighs contentedly, feeling like a purring cat as she rubs her dewy face against Draco’s hard, fit body. She raises her head and tremulously divulges, “Draco… I missed you like crazy. No, please, hear me out,” she demurs, as Draco tries to capture her lips in another passionate kiss.

“I don’t want you to feel any pressure about the amount of time we spend together: you have work and family commitments, as do I – and I truly believe this little break has helped us both – but what I’m trying to say is, I am incredibly happy that you have chosen to share your life (and your home!) with me, and I want you to know that I will never take that for granted – I will never take _you_ for granted,” she concludes in a blathering rush, flopping her disordered tawny curls frontward in an attempt to hide her now-flaming face.

Draco brushes aside her thick tresses, huskily correcting, “Our home. It’s our home now, Hermione.” He nods at her shy blush. “Look at me, _ma petite_.” He tips up her chin to gaze into her abashed chocolate eyes.

He swallows hard before he elucidates, “Wherever _you_ are… that’s my home. Fuck, could I sound any cornier?” he mutters in disgust as Hermione’s sob segues into a snicker. Draco skims his artist’s fingers over her cheek as he gathers his thoughts and clears his throat.

“It sounds appallingly trite – but it’s the truth. Before… before you miraculously came back to me… _Je vivais qu’a moitié_ – I was living a half-life,” he translates.

“I did understand that – Mac and I have been diligently practising,” Hermione smiles.

“Of course you have, my brilliant scholar,” Draco indulgently kisses the tip of her nose as she wrinkles it. “I am not yet certain whether teaching Macdolas French is going to be a blessing or a curse – but you are both unstoppably determined, it would seem. Now, where was I? Comparing my sad self to Sleeping Beauty, I believe.” He shrugs self-deprecatingly, his wry smile not reaching his pewter eyes.

“I fashioned a workable existence for myself out of the ruins of my old life – and it wasn’t… unhappy,” he muses. “But compared to what I am sharing with you now… it was like a rough charcoal sketch. All outline and no texture… no colour or depth. I was terrified of falling back into my old habits – I believed I would have greater success in managing my addiction and underlying mental disorders if I jettisoned everything that came before and started from scratch.’

“From the moment I brought you inside, that awful night – everything shifted. No, _bloomed_. It’s not at all romantic to compare you to garden fertilizer, but you were the catalyst for my life to blossom again,” Draco pronounces.

“Well, I’ve heard worse,” Hermione admits, thinking of teenage Ron’s atrocious attempt to write a haiku in her honour.

“I’ve rambled long enough. The past forty-eight hours were cruel without you, Hermione… but you were right, I needed the time apart to realize that what we have built together is special, and worthy, and real – and worth fighting for. For as long as you want me, _ma petite_ – I am yours,” Draco solemnly avows, cupping both her cheeks before kissing her reverentially.

 _Thank heavens I didn’t choose to wear eye makeup – I would be hopelessly raccoon-eyed by now, given how expertly Draco is plucking my heartstrings,_ Hermione reflects.

She scrubs at her moist eyes and inhales deeply before she can reply, “I’m – I’m yours too, Draco. For as long as you want me.”

His immediate “Forever” is half-smothered beneath her impassioned smooch. Hermione presses every last drop of profound emotion into her kiss, hoping to show Draco what she has not yet mustered the courage to say. He claims her mouth with corresponding ardour, gently combing his fingers through her tangled ringlets.

Hermione breaks the kiss when she suddenly remembers something she has wanted to ask regarding Draco’s last letter.

“Malfoy? What did you and Lucy discuss, about our magic melding?”. She folds her hands atop his sternum to rest her chin upon them, peering into his expressive orbs.

Draco appears edgy as he slowly answers, “Lucius advised that he had heard of it happening naturally before – though as I wrote in my letter, it is rare, and mostly undocumented. Well, as far as his understanding of the phenomenon is concerned… it is a soul bond, Hermione. Our magic considers us to be soul-bonded.”

His expression is notably apprehensive as he adds, “For – for life.”

“For life?” Hermione echoes, surprise colouring her voice. “Are you sure?”

Nodding, Draco states, “Unless we perform a dangerously perverse Dark spell to sever the union, or until one of us dies.” His eyes slam closed. “I’m sorry, Granger – I never meant to… to trap you like this – you should always be free to choose your fate. Perhaps there is another way to dissolve it–”

“Wait – you want to dissolve it?” she parrots, striving to keep the hurt from her tone. “Do _you_ feel trapped?”.

“No! I feel like the luckiest man alive, _ma petite_! But–”

Hermione covers his objecting mouth with her hand. “Then stop talking nonsense about severing our bond, you darling nincompoop! I certainly do not feel trapped – I feel honoured, and excited, and pretty damned special.” She scrambles to sit upright, blithely ignoring Draco’s _oof_ as she accidentally kneels on his elbow.

“What else did your father tell you? What does it mean, exactly? Will we be able to merge our cores at will? Will our ability to communicate psychically develop further? Are there sex rituals that will enhance the whole shebang?” she animatedly questions.

Clucking his tongue, Draco steadies her hips as she almost topples; her exaggerated hand gestures are making her a tad unbalanced.

“Easy there, Granger – and I love how you have homed in on ‘sex rituals’,” he chuckles tolerantly. He raises an eyebrow as she springs off his body and begins groping around for her cast-off lacy knickers.

“Where are you running away to, hmmm?”

“If we’re going to discuss soul bonds and ancient magic – and roger each other senseless again! – we’re going to need sustenance, Malfoy. I always scheduled regular refuelling breaks during my study sessions,” Hermione impatiently announces. “Mac prepared a marvellous spread for us: crudités, dips, cheeses, fruits – he even carved the strawberries into the shape of roses – did you know he could do that?”. She shakes her head in wonderment. “Where on earth did you toss my underwear?”.

“Leave it – I will go downstairs and bring up the platter, and some drinks. You won’t be needing any of the lingerie – lose the bra before I return,” Draco commands, standing up buck-naked to authoritatively fling her back onto their bed.

“Not a word!” He affectionately spanks her bum as she tries to rise. “I’ll be but a minute.”

Pretending to be affronted by his highhandedness, Hermione adopts an exaggerated pout as Draco strides unselfconsciously for the door, his sculpted buttocks effortlessly drawing her admiring eye.

“Fine – but you’ll pay dearly for that smack, Malfoy!” she hollers as he disappears around the corner. She waits until she hears his footsteps padding down the stairs before flopping back onto the pillows and cycling her legs in pure, giddy felicity.

 _We’re soul-bonded. For life. Me and Draco Malfoy._ Hermione stuffs her face into the nearest pillow to mute her irrepressible scream of delight. _Could this day get any better??_

Once she feels sufficiently composed, Hermione twists off her bra and heedlessly tosses it off the end of the bed. She considers and rejects half a dozen seductive poses before plumping and stacking two pillows to lie back against, sweeping her hair behind one shoulder and bringing her knees together and curled to the side. _Perfect_.

Her heart begins thumping as she hears Draco’s rapid tread ascending the steps. He marches through the door, nimbly balancing Mac’s beautifully arranged platter on his left hand, while his other holds… a letter?

Forgetting her carefully crafted ‘sexy’ pose, Hermione bolts upright as she finally remembers what had been niggling at her earlier…

Draco’s face is a mask of impassive aloofness as he holds Ron’s battered note; it is pincered between his right thumb and forefinger as though it is afire.

“This… thing was sitting atop the kitchen table; I assume Macdolas found it in your dirty laundry. I have not invaded your privacy, but the execrable penmanship leads me to believe it was written by your former swain.” Draco utters the words wholly devoid of inflection, but his ramrod-stiff spine and set jaw betray his inner turmoil.

“May I enquire why he is writing to you again, Granger?”. He extends the letter to her; Hermione numbly accepts it, her mind racing.

 _Piminy, zookers, fishhooks and fiddlesticks!_ The old-time exclamations jump into her head as she curses her idiocy in not recalling the bloody note before it reared its ugly head in such an awkward fashion.

_And I haven’t even read the wretched thing!_

“Draco – I can explain…”

* * *

**French translations:**

_Ma petite lionne, tellement belle, si précieuse et douce_ – My little lioness, so beautiful, precious, and sweet.

 _S’il te plait, j’ai tellement besoin de toi_ – Please, I need you so much.

 _mon sexy petit chaton_ – my little sex kitten.

 _Tu es à moi aussi maintenant_ – You are mine now too.

 _ma petite, ma chérie, mon cœur et mon âme_ – my little one, my darling, my heart and my soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the haiku that Ron wrote for Hermione while they were at Hogwarts:
> 
> Your hair is brunette  
> Big orange cat is your pet  
> I'm glad that we met.
> 
> (Presumably written before he accused Crookshanks of eating Scabbers).


	46. Tutelage

__

_Sunday 16 March 2003: PM_

“Draco – I can explain…”

_Stay calm. The Weasel is her ex-boyfriend for a reason... i.e., he’s a blithering moron who didn’t appreciate the best thing that ever happened to him. Do **not** lose your temper._

He nods. “I’m listening, _ma petite_.” Draco swivels, placing Macdolas’s exquisitely prepared platter of tempting vittles atop the tallboy behind him. He forgets his nudity until he leans back against it; the white wood is cool against his uncovered buttocks and back.

 _Well, Hermione is as naked as a jaybird, too_. Shrugging mentally, Draco folds his arms and waits.

His gorgeous, sex-rumpled girlfriend has apparently also forgotten her current state of undress; she shimmies down to perch on the end of the bed and adopts the studious posture of deep cogitation and focused attention that Draco has long found overpoweringly charming... though it now inflames his hot blood to witness her crossing her legs and thrusting forward her pert breasts. The innocent mannerisms pose a much more salacious picture sans attire.

 _Look in her beautiful topaz eyes._ Draco wills his very interested cock to stay quiescent for the time being. _No, darling – don't bite your lip in thought – damn it. That’s not helping._

“Draco, I completely forgot about this note – Ron surprised me with it just as we were leaving The Three Broomsticks; I shoved it in my pocket with the intention of perusing it when we got home.” Hermione’s agitation is clear, as her trembling hand flutters the scrappy-looking missive.

“I haven’t even read it yet – Ron said he wrote it a while ago – I mean, it looks like it’s been travelling with him for a while – Draco, you’re welcome to read it with me, I’ve nothing to hide from you, I’d hate for you to think that I am being dishonest in any way– " her sweet voice fractures and she drops the letter beside her as her right hand moves to fumble at her left forearm scar instead.

 _Oh, fuck – I'm such an arse_. “Hermione stop– please,” Draco swiftly steps forward to pull away her jittering fingers, holding both of her hands gently in his own. He kneels on the rug to level their eye contact.

“I know you’re not deceitful – woman, you’re as candid and honourable as the day is long,” he begins, reverently stroking her gifted little hands. “My– temper is riled because thinking of you with the Weas– Weasley,” he hastily amends, as Hermione’s lips purse disapprovingly. _Making a hash of it already, dummy._

Draco tries again. “My _jealousy_ is triggered because I am not-so-quietly terrified you’ll wake one day and realize that– that Weasley is the better match for you,” he confesses. He holds up an imperious finger to forestall the demurral her lips are already shaping.

“Let me finish, _lionne_. I know that the roaring green-eyed monster is my problem, and I am endeavouring to vanquish it; it is wholly my issue, not yours. We both have pasts – Merlin knows, I am forever humbled that you are willing to overlook my historic follies and poor decisions. But never doubt that I trust you, Hermione Jean Granger. I am sorry my pettishness has caused you upset.”

Brushing a gossamer kiss to her forehead, Draco concludes, “I forgot to bring up liquid refreshments; I’ll remedy my oversight while you read your letter.”

He winks provocatively as he rises to his feet. “You’ll need all the sustenance you can get, Granger – I brought back my old Quidditch uniform, as requested. Perhaps after we’ve supped and you’ve caught me up on what you’ve been up to in my absence, we could explore some debauched roleplay, hmmm?”.

“How debauched are we talking here, Malfoy?”. He is delighted and relieved to note Hermione’s equilibrium seems to have recovered as she pretends to study her short fingernails in a parody of unenthusiastic resignation. “I’m afraid I have to insist on a rather high minimum standard of sexual dissoluteness, these days; my sexy wizard boyfriend has really raised the bar since we started hooking up,” she purrs.

Draco laughs unreservedly as Hermione’s little stab at play-acting dissolves into silly giggles. “Points for trying, my naughty little minx,” he acknowledges.

" _Je suis ton sexy petit chaton…_ Draco." The brunette temptress ensures his rapt attention as she shifts to lie back onto the bed, deliberately raising her arms and sighing lustily. The cherry on the Hermione sundae is affirmed when she uncrosses her legs to slide her bare toes along his well-defined calves, bequeathing a bawdy wink of her own. “Isn’t that what you told me, earlier?”.

 _Fuck. Me._ Draco sucks in some much needed oxygen as all his circulating blood rushes eagerly to his dick. “I didn’t– I didn’t translate it at the time– you’re a damned quick study, my sexy little witch,” he croaks. His hands grab at thin air as his good intentions war bitterly with his overweening impulse to finish what the fantastically foxy woman has started.

“I’ll be back with our drinks – I saw Macdolas left freshly squeezed orange juice in the fridge – or there’s apple – Salazar’s sake, Granger, don’t cup your glorious breasts like that!”. Draco takes one last longing glance and flees for the stairwell. Hermione’s mirthful chuckles resound in his wake.

 _I hope I (eventually) die buried between her supple thighs… in some form or another._ He shakes his head and sets to preparing their chilled beverages.

* * *

“Here – I’d like you to read it, please.” Hermione impatiently flaps the wrinkled correspondence as she stands to accept a glass of apple juice.

“It’s fine – I told you I trust you, Granger. There’s no need.” Draco dodges her prodding hand as he sips sweet orange juice from his own bevelled tumbler.

“Malfoy, I insist. Please,” Hermione stresses with a growl. “Just take it.”

He accedes with a brusque nod. _There is little point in resisting the Granger juggernaut. Truth be told – I do want to know what that ginger wanker has to say. If he thinks he can waltz back in and try to romance my darling witch again…_

Draco unfolds the bedraggled single piece of parchment that the Weasel has the gall to consider appropriate stationery; he manages to rein in his disparaging sniff.

‘Dear Hermione,

Yesterday was my birthday. I think it was the first time in over a decade that you haven’t sent me a card or gift. I’m not having a dig at you about it, I’m telling you because I didn’t realize how much that meant to me until I no longer had it.

That’s what I’m trying to say, about you I mean. You were always just there for me, and I selfishly thought you always would be. I thought I didn’t have to work for it. I took you for granted, Hermione. I was selfish and bloody daft and I regret my stupidity more than you’ll ever know.

Last night I had ~~a~~ ~~epeefp~~ ~~epiff~~ ~~epeap~~ something happened and I got a taste of my own medicine and I didn’t much like it. Funny that, right?

Anyway I’ve been a proper git and I’m sorry. I won’t be hassling you about getting back together, don’t worry. I was a crap boyfriend and a crummy friend before that. You were right when you said I needed to grow up. I hope that after I’ve dealt with my ~~shit~~ issues, we can maybe try to be friendly again. No pressure.

Take care of yourself, Hermione.

Love, Ron.

PS I did the books for the shop last week. George said it was a shockingly poor attempt and caused more hassles than it solved but I’ll keep trying.’

Folding the letter back into its grubby creases, Draco silently returns it to Hermione.

“Well? What did you think?” his bossy sweetheart demands peremptorily. “Has that eased your rampant fit of misplaced machismo somewhat?”. She doesn’t mince her words.

Feeling abashed, Draco shuffles his feet and scratches at his reddening ear. “Yes – I mean, I’m sorry I was a total prat. I’d like to promise I won’t get snarky about – _him_ – again, but it’s a process, _ma petite_. Can you forgive me? Please?” he looks up from under his fringe of straight flaxen locks and smiles tentatively.

“Oh, no no no – don’t turn the full force of your princely charms on me, Malfoy. I’m not a simpering, silly schoolgirl. I shan’t be so easily swayed by your polished charisma,” Hermione tut-tuts, pinching in her answering grin.

“Wait – would that have worked? Back in the day? All I had to do was smile at you?” Draco is only half-joking. Seems as though the Weasel wasn’t the only fool boy to entirely misjudge his approach. _At least I can spell ‘epiphany’, though. Dickhead._

Hermione turns up her nose in a haughty display of censure. “Hardly. You’d have had to work a lot harder than that, _mon cœur.”_

Hearing the French endearment affectionately falling from Hermione’s pretty Cupid’s bow lips has his heart squeezing strongly enough that Draco feels the need to rub at it with his fist. “Say that again?” he huskily requests as he slams down his empty glass beside the unsampled platter and prowls meaningfully toward her.

She ducks around the bottom corner of their bed, snickering as he backs her into a corner. “Like that, do you? How’s my accent coming along?” Hermione teases, putting down her own drink on the dresser to clutch a pillow to her naked chest. Draco immediately plucks it aside, tossing it onto the floor.

“Superbly: though I will enjoy judging your inflection when you pant it during your next orgasm,” he crushes her laughing lithe body to his own, lipping voraciously at the smooth line of her naked neck and shoulder as she squeals breathlessly.

“What about the snacks? Ooh, yes – right there, you know I love it when you nibble on my ears… eeep!” Hermione shivers as Draco zealously applies his warm mouth to her erogenous hotspots. He halts his seduction as a most unwelcome sound rumbles from downstairs.

“Is that – is that the Floo?” Hermione cocks her head as her suspicions are confirmed.

_Oh, for the love of legless lizards! Why the hell didn’t I seal the bloody fireplace to prevent unwanted guests? Or instruct Macdolas to do so?_

_You were too busy spiriting your wondrously wanton witch upstairs to have your wicked way with her_ , answers his ever-helpful memory.

“It’s me – Harry. I’m keeping my eyes closed until I have verbal confirmation that I won’t need to rinse them in vinegar later to remove unwanted glimpses of your confronting sexual appetites,” Potter hollers from the lounge room. “I know you’re home, I can see your satchel… and Hermione’s Extendable bag is down here, she never goes anywhere without it,” he adds.

_There goes my plan to play Grandmother’s Footsteps until he leaves. Merlin’s mumping mandibles! Potter’s timing is abysmal, as usual._

“We’d better get down there before he blinds himself with Floo powder or something,” Hermione sighs.

Before he reluctantly releases her, Draco deliberately suckles a love bite into the indent just above her left clavicle. He smirks as she half-heartedly protests, “Malfoy! I thought we talked about you minimizing your caveman tendencies?”.

“If Lightning Bolt is going to continue to barge in on us, he deserves some added squeamishness,” Draco avers. “Let me help you put that delectable set of lingerie back on your stunning body, Granger.” Spying her decidedly damp knickers on the rug, he mutters a quick Hot Air Charm before handing them over. “I’ll help you don your bra – here it is. Turn around, _ma chérie_.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just pop on my otter robe,” Hermione dismisses his offer with an airy wave.

Gritting his teeth, Draco edits his response to that idea. “I must insist. Your splendid breasts are for my eyes only now… regardless of how poor Potter’s vision is.” He whips the lacy black garment over her arms before swiftly notching the two hooks through the eyes.

“Oi! Are you two deaf? I have news!” Harry’s yell is now raucous.

Hermione calls out, “We’ll be right there, Harry! There’s juice in the fridge if you want a drink?”.

“Fuck’s sake, are you going to tender him our nibbles, too?... You are,” Draco grumbles. “He’ll never ruddy leave.” He puffs a disordered blond strand out of his eyes as he moves to collect the platter. “After you, Hermione.”

Hermione stands in the doorway, barring his progress. “Draco? Aren’t you forgetting something?” she chides; her amusement is rife. “Unless you’re much more comfortable sharing _your_ nudity with Harry than you are mine?”.

 _Ah. Yes._ Draco slides the tray onto the bed and quickly slips on his boxers and grey wool trousers before picking it back up.

“What about your shirt?”

“Let him look – it’ll give the bastard something to attain to,” Draco snips. “And possibly get rid of him that much sooner.”

Hermione’s wry chortle is music to his ears.

* * *

Harry sips his juice and eyes Hermione with a pained expression. “You’ve got sex hair, love. As does your moon-tanning boyfriend,” he jerks his head at Draco, who responds with a smug tip of his angular chin.

“Jealousy’s a curse, Potter,” Draco drawls, tugging Hermione a little closer as they sit in the corner of the chromatic modern couch.

“Wouldn’t have hurt either of you to run a comb through it, is all I’m saying,” Harry grouses. “I suppose I should be happy your frowzled bedheads are all I have to witness tonight.”

“Indeed. Get over your prudery and get to the point, Potter. I have much better things to do,” Draco waggles his eyebrows suggestively over the top of Hermione’s chestnut curls.

Hermione clucks disapprovingly at his bluntness. “Ignore him, Harry – Draco’s missed me like crazy for the past forty-eight hours, and he’s as tetchy as a truculent teenage troll. Have some more fruit–” she nudges the elaborate platter on the coffee table closer “–and tell us why you’re here, please.”

Harry chooses a couple of glossy strawberries, holding them up to inspect Macdolas’s skilled edible sculptures. “Merlin, Mac puts Kreacher to shame in the culinary department – though don’t tell him I said that.” Harry chews diligently before he leans forward, holding their gaze. His bright green eyes display grim determination… and trepidation.

“There’s been another development in Operation Acromantula. I came straight from your flat, Hermione. Your neighbours reported a hooded figure lurking around your front door this afternoon and called the police. Eventually the Muggle authorities got in touch with our department; they handed over a copy of this nasty bit of business. It had been partially slipped under your entry door.” Potter pulls a sheet of paper from his pocket; he seems hesitant to give it over.

“That’s not parchment, that’s a sheet of A4,” Hermione shrewdly observes. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense – what does it say?” she presses.

“It doesn’t say anything, Hermione: it’s basically a printout of some particularly disgusting and disturbing snuff pornography… with both your heads glued onto the victims. Crude, but the message is effective… the figures sporting your likenesses have clearly been fatally tortured. I’m sorry, love – I’m not going to show you – either of you,” Harry states implacably, folding his hand over the horrid pastiche as Hermione snatches for it.

“Harry, I’m not a child – and this concerns ME – I have a right to see it!” Hermione’s outrage is predictably quick to manifest.

“Hermione – Harry’s right,” Draco keeps his bare arms wrapped securely around his infuriated sweetheart, ignoring her maddened thrashing. “It serves no purpose for you to look at it; what has been seen cannot be unseen, _ma petite_. Trust in your friend – I’d wager he would rather not have that image in his head: right, Potter?” he urges.

“Yeah… I won’t sleep well tonight. Please, Hermione. You’re upset enough as it is. I knew you’d want to be across this, which is why I came over… but I’m asking you to not push it, because I won’t budge.” Harry shoves the disputed hate mail back into his robes and roughly rubs his palms over his face.

 _Potter looks exhausted. Hopefully seeing how drained he is will calm her down._ Draco quells his rising sympathy for the tired Auror. _He voluntarily signed up for this shite… can’t be easy, though. The bloke has already seen and endured enough Dark magic to last a dozen lifetimes._

The frenetic motions of the woman in his arms have eased; Hermione must have come to a similar conclusion.

“OK… but will you answer some questions, please?” she quietly petitions.

At Harry’s almost imperceptible nod, Hermione asks, “Was it the Saunders who rang the police? Why didn’t they call me, too?”,

“They did – your mobile rang out. The police tried and got the same result,” Harry divulges.

“Oh – I switched it to silent when Dad called yesterday! Macdolas was threatening to blast it, he really doesn’t care for the sound and vibrations… I forgot to change it back, though. Stupid, stupid…” Hermione’s stiff spine crumples as she huddles her arms around her torso.

Draco ignores Harry’s presence as he tows his distressed girlfriend fully into his lap and hums, “You’re safe, sweetheart. I have you.”

“The Saunders didn’t get much of a look at this scumbag – their eyesight isn’t the best – but they described him as tall and broad, and wearing dark clothing, including a Muggle hoodie. So he’s clearly comfortable employing non-magical methods: but we knew that already.”

Harry jumps up from the retro armchair, pacing agitatedly across from one side of the lounge room to the other. “I just want to catch a bloody break! Flint’s still out cold in St Mungo’s, the other predator – or predators – haven’t moved on any other women… we’re reduced to twiddling our thumbs and waiting for _their_ next move! We’ve been back-tracing Flint’s movements as best we can, but the bastard took great pains to keep his degenerate activities clandestine.”

He crimps his hands into frustrated fists. “The trail’s going cold… I’m sorry, guys. I’ve let you down.”

“No. That’s untrue. Shut down your self-pity party, Potter. And you have learned something important: this arsehole’s egotism is escalating. Turning up at Hermione’s flat, risking leaving mocking literature there and at Flint’s place… he’s cocky, and not half as smart as he thinks he is. And that will be his downfall.” Draco’s reassuring speech to Harry astonishes them all; the room falls silent.

“Erm… thanks, Malfoy. I–I appreciate it,” Harry stammers, as Hermione tilts up her head to endow Draco a tender, grateful smile.

“I am capable of giving credit where it’s due, you know,” Draco teases, hoping to lighten the dreary emotional atmosphere. “Anyone can see how hard Lightning Bolt is working to nab these foul pricks.”

“Godric’s gumboots – not you, too,” Harry groans. “Pansy’s ribbing was near relentless on Friday night.” He chuckles as he rebuts, “Thanks for the kudos… Jake Malloy.”

“Harry! I told you about that in confidence!” Hermione hisses, between her sniggers; Draco is delighted to hear her jocularity is returning.

“Blaise jumped straight in with the ‘Jake Malloy’ baiting as soon as we arrived at the Manor, Hermione,” Harry defends. “As if we weren’t going to razz this blond lummox mercilessly, love.” Potter snaffles a handful of cheese and crackers and chews them with relish before he stands once more.

“I’d best be off – I want to Floo back to your flat and double-check it’s still secure, Hermione. Come see me at work tomorrow, please. I’ll bring you up to speed on the investigation. You’re welcome to accompany her, of course,” Harry turns to Draco, who nods his accord.

“Thanks, Harry. Mac is coming with me to the Ministry every day, too.” Hermione pauses, a troubled expression crossing her bonny features. “Please be careful, too… we don’t know what these grubs are capable of… or how many of us they are targeting.”

“I will. Don’t worry, Hermione. We’re close to snagging a break in the case: but being patient has never been my strong point,” Harry admits. He leans down to give her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. “Talk to you both soon. I’d wish you joy for the rest of the night – but I really don’t care to think about that,” he deadpans, stepping back into the Floo.

“See you tomorrow – and my advice is to start dating again,” Draco retorts. “You’ll cope better with witnessing our passion if you experienced some of your own, Potter.”

“Bye, Harry,” Hermione’s farewell is muted by Potter’s loud blowing of a rude raspberry before the Floo activates and spirits him away.

Draco leans back into the sofa, encouraging Hermione to relax against him. “How are you feeling, Granger? I’m here to listen… if you wish to talk about it,” he gently prompts.

She doesn’t respond for a few moments as she shifts in his arms, snuggling closer and laying her riotously curly head against his right pectorals. Draco lightly palms her soft hair from crown to ends as he comforts, “I swear I will help to protect you, Hermione; though I know you are eminently adept at defending yourself. We’re a team now, remember?” he quotes back her recent declaration.

“We are,” Hermione’s shaky but resolute response is muffled but intelligible against his skin. “It’s just… difficult sometimes, realizing that someone out there wants to hurt us… it makes me heartsick, Draco.”

“I hear you, _ma petite_. I feel the same way.” He strokes his left forefinger beneath her chin until she looks up into his solemn face.

“I will die to keep you safe; do you understand? It won’t come to that – but never doubt how much you mean to me, Hermione Jean Granger. You mean _everything_ ,” he stresses, as the words he is yearning to finally speak quiver on the tip of his tongue.

_Go on, you big wimp. She already knows, in her heart of hearts – she must. But you have to **say** them, Chicken Little. _

Hermione’s beautiful whiskey eyes widen as though she senses his intent; Draco can see her holding her breath.

 **Crack!** The dissonant sound of Macdolas Apparating into the room stymies his Big Announcement. Draco cannot decide whether he is disappointed or thankful for the house elf’s interruption. _His picnic date seems to have wound up early, surely?_

Hermione sits upright, alarmed at the little sprite’s woebegone demeanour. “Mac? Whatever’s the matter, dear?”.

Draco winces as his melancholy major-domo wipes his dripping long nose on the sleeves of his ‘Harry Potter’ robes. _Another fine reason to throw that odious attire straight into the garbage._

“Ruibby and Macdolas argue; Ruibby wants Macdolas to – to go further,” the elf howls. “Macdolas fears his inexperience disappoints his darling, he baulks at revealing his jejuneness but his precious Ruibby believes Macdolas loses his lustful interest!”.

Hermione rises to console the weeping seneschal. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mac… there, there. Draco is going to sit down with you now and have a nice long talk, OK?”

“I am?!?” Draco squawks, aghast at having his Hermione-based plans for the evening hijacked. “Must it be _now_?”.

“Yes, now,” Hermione confirms, magicking a handful of clean tissues into Macdolas’s tensed, knobby hands. She pats his back a last time before returning to Draco’s flabbergasted form, bending to buss a lingering dulcet kiss to his parted lips.

“I’m going to curl up with a Regency romance and wait for you in our bedroom, Malfoy. No need to rush through The Talk, hmmm? Thank you for helping Macdolas, I know he appreciates it greatly.”

 _Checkmate_. Draco succumbs to her overt manipulation with bad grace. “Fine,” he scowls. “But don’t get changed, Ms Bossy Boots. I’ll deal with you later.”

“Oooh… I’ll be ready,” Hermione leers, before blowing another cheeky kiss and disappearing around the corner.

Macdolas stares miserably at him from beside the coffee table. If Draco were to paint his portrait now, he’d title it ‘Elf in Despair’.

“Alright, little mate – can you bring over my satchel, please? I’ve brought over something to speed along this… tutorial.” _I might need to ask Hermione to Obliviate the coming hour from my memory banks, though. Being the Head of the Household is indubitably a double-edged sword._

“Blow your nose, wipe your eyes, and have a seat, Macdolas….”

* * *

“But how does Master Malfoy know what the darling Ruibby’s… _nethers_ look like?” Macdolas aggressively demands. He has been poring over the illustrated “Your Guide to Elven Sexuality” manual (that Draco spent most of his free weekend time writing and illustrating) with the dogged purposefulness of a seventh year Hogwarts student preparing to sit his final N.E.W.T. examinations.

 _Salazar – lend me strength_ , Draco silently appeals to the long-dead warlock.

“I have no idea what Ruibby’s nethers look like, Macdolas; this is a generic image of female elven genitalia, based on my academic research,” he stresses. “It’s essentially like human reproductive anatomy, though obviously… smaller. Proportionately,” he falters as Macdolas’s narrowed gaze remains as suspicious as before.

_Hermione – you owe me big time for this. As if trawling through dry-as-dust ancient treatises on the sex lives of house elves wasn’t traumatizing enough… now my Scottish seneschal thinks I’m a pervert._

“You have my word I have not seen your elvish girlfriend’s genitals, alright? Speaking of which – you’ll note I’ve used correct anatomical terms throughout this text. It’s best to save any slang terms for the bedroom.”

“Macdolas asks the Master to specify?”

“Look – I’ve listed them in one of the appendices – flip to the end and work backward,” Draco’s ears begin to burn as he hustles to find the appropriate page. “There – that’s it. Bear in mind, I wasn’t certain of the extent of linguistic crossover between human and elven ‘dirty talk’, so you might have to muddle your way through some of that yourselves.”

To his horror, Macdolas begins reading aloud from the ribald list: “Pussy, core, Bookbinder’s wife, flower, cunny, futz, mons, honeypot, tinder box, phoenix nest, quim, Breakfast of Champions, paradise, Altar of Venus, Venerable monosyllable, yoni… these are all terms for vagina, Master Malfoy? A yoni is not a type of fruit?”.

 _Ah, kill me now_. “’Yoni’ is a Hindu word for the vulva… it’s employed as a symbol of divine procreative energy usually represented by a circular stone,” Draco faintly explains.

Macdolas earnestly starts in on the ‘penis’ list. “Cock, member, Evesdropper, manhood, sceptre, maypole, staff, rod, silent flute, dick, Gentleman usher, wand, shaft, matrimonial peacemaker, stalk, credentials… Mr Peaslin? Did Master Peaslin have a special phallus?”.

“You'd have to ask his wife,” Draco mumbles. “Moving on! Don’t ever use any words that upset or denigrate Ruibby in any way; she might prefer her dirty talk on the filthier side, or she might not like it at all. Make sure you both communicate your likes and dislikes, no matter how uncomfortable you may feel about that initially. Same goes with you – if you don’t care to be touched in a certain area, or something hurts, be sure to tell her that immediately. You should always – ALWAYS – obtain her full, willing, and vocalized consent for everything you do together.’

“This is imperative, Macdolas: If ever Ruibby says no, or asks you to stop – you stop. Instantly, and without question.” Draco is pleased when the miniature mannikin vigorously nods his understanding.

“Macdolas always will stop! He never wishes to hurt his beloved Ruibby!”.

“Good. Any questions about what we’ve covered so far?”

Fidgeting, Macdolas shyly replies, “Does Master include an appendix for French slang? Ruibby– Ruibby likes the French Macdolas whispers in her ear.”

“I’ll add it through the week,” Draco gulps. “Anything else?”

Sucking in a deep breath, the imp queries, “How does Macdolas apply… the fingers and the mouth… and the _sceptre_ … to Ruibby’s pleasure points? How does Macdolas know of the situations of the erogenous zones? Does Master draw a map?”.

“Not a map, exactly – refer to Diagram Seven, it shows the common flashpoints that many females find sensually arousing. But again: it is a matter of individual preference, and the best way to ascertain what Ruibby likes is by asking her; or asking her permission to touch her in different places, and judging her responses accordingly,” Draco responds.

_Keep it clinical and do not dwell on the mental imagery. Block it out._

“For example, some people are sensitive to caresses on the back crease of their knees… or their toes. Others like their ears nibbled on, or their nipples tweaked or suckled, while that might feel horrid to somebody else. My advice is to continually check in with your partner and remember that everybody is unique in their preferences and spectrum of sexuality,” Draco coaches.

“Regarding your first question: gain Ruibby’s consent, then experiment. Find out what you both enjoy, and progress slowly until you feel comfortable switching it up a gear or two. Whatever you do, though – you see to your lady’s pleasure first. Or if you can’t hold off, under no circumstances do you roll over and fall asleep or leave her in the wet spot. Make sure her needs are attended to, and do whatever it takes to make that happen,” Draco sternly wags his finger for emphasis.

“Macdolas frets that he will… _spontaneously combust_ ahead of his Ruibby when the sexing becomes penetrative. What does Master Malfoy recommend to delay reaching his zenith ahead of his mountaineering partner?”. The fey butler’s cabbage-green peepers enlarge with anxiety.

_Yep – I’m absolutely going to need Obliviation tonight._

“Stay focused on your pelvic rhythm, and employ your higher consciousness with a mundane task,” Draco tutors. “Something like counting numbers or remembering a shopping list. Don’t think of anything unpleasant, though – you might lose traction entirely. Don’t be disheartened if it isn’t ‘perfect’ the first time, Macdolas. If you’re both virgins, it will likely be messy and awkward and disjointed. But it will get better the more you practise – and the more intimately your lives are entwined.”

Tapping his long fingers against his chin, Macdolas thoughtfully articulates, “Like you and Her Grace Lady Granger, Master Malfoy? Macdolas aspires to share a similar joy with his treasured Ruibby, one day.”

_He’s a lippy wee ratbag; but he’s awfully bloody cute, sometimes. Don’t acknowledge that to Hermione, of course._

“Right. Given the way Ruibby gazes adoringly at you, Macdolas – you’ve nowt to fret over in that respect,” Draco assures. “I think we’ve covered the basics. Study that guidebook and come back to me with any further questions.” Draco starts edging away from the lounge.

“Macdolas thanks Master Malfoy most appreciatively for his wisdom and troubles taken to expertly craft and illustrate the special elvish sex education manual! Macdolas asks permission to share his newfound knowledge with the curious Ruibby?”. His ears jig zestfully as he holds his fingertip to mark his place on Anatomy Diagram Two.

“Of course. I may have to add in a few more female-specific chapters, though,” Draco agrees. “Do you feel more confident now, to… move forward with your courtship? At your own pace, naturally,” he hastens to qualify.

“Oh yes, Master Malfoy – Macdolas is sanguine in the knowledge he will soon attain sexual stud status with his sweetest Ruibby,” he confidently proclaims. “Now that he understands how to usher his Gentleman into Ruibby’s Altar of Venus, Macdolas has the uttermost confidence in his future sexings.”

_Aaaaand I’m out. Gone. Destroyed. Gobsmacked. Deceased._

Bolting for the open doorway, Draco chokes out, “Keep learning – and stay downstairs!”.

 _I am going to need so much more therapy_ , he thinks as he ascends the steps two at a time.

_So. Much. More._

_Thank the heavens above I have my gorgeous, sexy, brilliant, **soul-bonded** witch waiting for me upstairs._

_How bloody lucky am I?!_

* * *

**French translation:**

_Je suis ton sexy petit chaton_ – I’m your little sex kitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Evesdropper' is an archaic spelling of 'eavesdropper'.


	47. Aspiration

__

_Sunday 16 March 2003: PM_

Draco’s lips curve as he takes in the utterly charming sight of Hermione Jean Granger sleeping soundly on their big white bed; she is emitting soft, snuffling snores every few moments from her sprawled pose of face-down (with a book still loosely clasped in her small hand). The warm mellow light spilling from the bedside lamp illumines her beautiful face and the sweet line of her exposed neck, back, and shoulders.

_Disobedient little witch took off her bra before collapsing on the bed... despite my admonition to not get changed. Difficult to truly berate her defiance, though... not when she looks simultaneously sexy and adorable._

Moving carefully, Draco slips the paperback from her grasp, sparing a quick glance for the title and author: ‘Rules of Surrender’ by Christina Dodd. The cover shows a brooding young rake with his white shirt and blue jacket unbuttoned to his waist, revealing an impressive expanse of lightly tanned musculature. _Blond like me… though I’m better looking,_ Draco decides. Intrigued, he turns it over to check the blurb.

‘The Rules of Employment for The Distinguished Academy of Governesses: Always remember your station. Be sure to maintain a disciplined schoolroom. And never become too familiar with the master of the house…’ _Interesting. And includes some steamy ripping of the heroine’s chemise by the fair hero, judging by the page that currently lies open._

 _We never did get to act out ‘Lord of the Manor Ravishes Bookish Governess’, did we?_ Draco muses, as he relocates the downy owl feather Hermione is using as a bookmark and sets the book upon the dresser. He laughs quietly to himself at the multiplying sexual fantasies they are rapidly accumulating. _Perhaps I could encourage my saucy scholar to read aloud from this titillating tome tomorrow evening..._

“D-Draco? Have I been asleep long?” Hermione’s groggy voice interrupts his reverie. She yawns hugely, cocoa eyes blinking as she wiggles her face against the pillow. She smiles slowly at him and he forgets to breathe.

_This. This very moment is what I have been wishing for… dreaming of… aching to experience… for an eon. Scratch that – my whole life, it feels like. Say something._

“ _Ma petite_ – you are spectacular, do you know that? Has anyone told you that today?” Draco husks the impulsive compliment, sitting down beside her and carefully sweeping his quivering hand from her opulent russet hair to the base of her naked back.

Hermione shrugs. “Just you… and the Head Boy at Hogwarts this morning: Minerva asked him to escort me around the renovated grounds… he seemed a tad smitten,” she teases, lowering her dark eyelashes and biting back her impudent grin.

Draco chuckles, prowling over her supine form to cage her beneath him; he trails languid kisses up her spine, ensuring that he doesn’t miss a single vertebra. “Indeed? He must be a bold blighter: didn’t he fear the vengeful wrath of your proprietorial boyfriend?”.

“Oh – he was simply starstruck,” Hermione snickers. “Are you going to get all riled up over the mild adoration of a pimply seventeen year old youth? I think not, _mon coeur_.”

“What’s his name?” Draco sternly demands; he is unable to maintain his dour veneer as Hermione turns wide eyes upon him. _The look on her face!_

“Malfoy! You are a wretch!” Hermione gurgles as he continues to press warm smooches along her backbone. “Leave Joseph alone, he’s a lovely lad. And he’s a Ravenclaw: it’s pleasing to see other Houses being recognized and encouraged.”

“’Joseph’, eh? I’ll thank him to keep his callow flattery to himself,” he nibbles at her neck as she twitches happily beneath him. “Why were you being shown around Hogwarts today, Granger? Is it something to do with the Ministry?”. Draco’s curiosity is piqued.

Flipping onto her back, Hermione stares up at him with hesitancy and hope warring in her expression. She places her right palm on his left cheek; Draco kisses it tenderly as he awaits her explanation.

“No… I went to meet Minerva for a job interview – for the Professor of Arithmancy role.”

“You want to teach at Hogwarts? As in… permanently?” Draco swiftly taps into his Occlumency to keep surprise and trepidation off his features. _Hermione needs to know she has my full support in everything she chooses to undertake… though I cannot help but selfishly worry that she may be trying to slow down how quickly our relationship is progressing. No. Don’t panic. Listen to your sagacious sorceress: she always has A Plan._

“Yes. I have been thinking a lot lately, about my career, and ambitions. You were right when you advised me not to continue stagnating in a dead-end job, Draco. I have been trying to meet other people’s expectations of me, and succeeded in becoming miserable and unfulfilled. Thank you for helping me to see that,” Hermione strokes his cheek and gazes deeply into his cool mercury eyes.

“And before you freak out – yes, I see you trying desperately to appear unruffled – I have no intention of living apart from you, Malfoy. I’ve discussed our situation with Minerva, and we’ve settled upon a few workable options… depending on whether you’re amenable to any of them, of course. I don’t – I don’t presume to order about your life, I mean I am going to take your opinion into account, always–“

Hermione’s nervous gabble is stilled when Draco dips his head to graze his mouth across her sensual lips. “Breathe, Granger. I trust you. And whatever you want… we will work together to make it happen,” he promises. “Keep telling me about your interview, please.”

Her voice hitches as she replies, “Sometimes I think I’ve dreamed you into existence, Draco… you’re so supportive, and hearing you say that – I just–” she breaks into hiccoughing little sobs.

“Hey, hey, hey – please don’t cry, sweetheart… save your tears for the rapturous aftermath of our next otherworldly sexual encounter,” Draco hopes his teasing will ease her weeping.

“You were crying tonight, too,” Hermione reminds him, smiling wanly through her sniffles. “After I rocked your world,” she adds with a pert wink.

 _Oh, darling – you rocked my world many moons ago. Spun it off its wobbling axis and shot me clean into another galaxy._ He shifts to lie on his side next to her, propping his sharp chin on his hand.

“Ecstatic sex tears are the best tears,” Draco agrees unabashedly. “Now – how are we going to make this work, hmmm?” he prompts.

“Right. Well, Minerva said she can grant me special dispensation to return to the townhouse every weeknight via the Floo – so I’d be working a standard eight hour day at Hogwarts. I would have to make myself available to work certain weekends and vacations, depending on special events and the like, so as not to disadvantage the other teachers who live on-site. But she is working on updating the employment conditions anyway, to standardize the leave entitlements and equitable rostering and so forth,” Hermione elucidates.

“Headmistress McGonagall is comfortable with me… being your boyfriend? Even though…” Draco trails off, swallowing the rest of his sentence.

Boring her index finger into his hard pectorals, Hermione scolds, “Don’t go calling yourself an ‘ex-Death Eater’ or an ‘addict’ – or I shall bite you. _Hard_. Minerva told me herself that she admires your ‘good heart’, and to please pass on her ‘encouragement and approbation’. Which reminds me to chivvy you about another rather important fact she mentioned – but I’ll put a pin in that for later.’

“Minerva made another suggestion, Malfoy. She said that if you’re interested, she wants to discuss the possibility of you teaching art – and art therapy – at Hogwarts. And training to be a back-up Potions Master.” Hermione chews at her bottom lip. “You look somewhat stunned, handsome; I’ll give you a moment to process it, OK?”.

 _Me? A Hogwarts… professor? **Me**?_ Draco dimly wonders whether the whites of his eyes are displaying. He tries to articulate his thoughts.

“You’re certain she meant… me? OK, OK – don’t bite me, please!” Draco adroitly avoids Hermione’s snapping teeth. “I never thought – I never expected that I’d be welcomed to work at Hogwarts… not after what I did,” he guiltily refers to his terrible deeds of Sixth Year – and beyond. He shakes his head regretfully. “No – I can’t imagine the students’ parents would approve. Much less the Board of Governors. I appreciate the offer, though.”

“You capitulate far too easily – except when you’re being possessive and authoritarian with me,” Hermione argues. “Have some faith in Minerva’s clout and determination; and my stubborn ability to get what I want,” she laughs. “Rest assured that any rumblings from that stuffy old Board will soon quell when they learn of your bountiful generosity, Malfoy. Plus – Skeeter’s upcoming series of articles are guaranteed to set the record straight about what truly happened, and the myriad ways in which you’ve sought meaningful redemption and effected positive healing for those affected by the War.”

Turning on her side to clearly face him, Hermione stretches her arms around Draco’s neck and back. “I think I have a right to feel smug at settling your dithering concerns in a couple of sentences… but the real question is: Do you _want_ to teach at Hogwarts? Please don’t decide based on my desires, either; this has to be something you wish to do for yourself,” she clarifies. “Minerva said if all else fails, she can set you up on an obscure Ministry Humanities Grant as an Artist in Residence.”

The idea of being holed up in a remote tower of the sprawling castle painting like a fiend while being under the benevolent patronage of Headmistress McGonagall causes Draco to laugh heartily. “Oh, Granger – how did you get so smart, huh? And cunning… _ma petite_ , your wiliness arouses me no end. I’d call you a ‘Slytherdor’ if it wouldn’t upset you.”

He bops the tip of her cute nose with his fingertip. “Since when were the fine arts considered part of the Hogwarts curriculum? I never wanted my donations to become public knowledge – and what’s this about Skeeter? You and Mother strong-armed her into something not quite ethical, didn’t you?” Draco tsks.

“Ethical, _schmethical_ ,” Hermione deflects. “We went easy on Rita, anyway.” She pauses. “Malfoy… if you aren’t interested in working at Hogwarts, I’ll reconsider taking the professorship – I mean, it hasn’t formally been offered to me yet, but Minerva told me that she wants to groom me to one day be her replacement…!” her excitement at the opportunity is evident in her high, breathless tone.

Draco smothers her happy face in quick delighted kisses, as she tries to peck him back amidst her giggles. “Granger, that’s wonderful news – congratulations! I’m so proud of you – and of course you will take the job. Never hold back on your dreams because of me, _ma petite_. That’s not right and never will be.”

He cannot resist plundering Hermione’s bonny mouth for a deep, radiant kiss before he answers her query. Her energetic response and the impatient way she tows his willing body atop hers again effectively scramble his brains to pulp… and harden his loins into steel.

“Mmmphff, _t’es si sucrée_ –“ Draco mumbles against her luscious lips as he strives to remember whatever it was he wanted to say.

“I taste so sweet? It must be the strawberries and apple juice,” Hermione deliberately misunderstands, clamping her lissome legs around his waist and grinding provocatively.

“It’s not that – it’s you,” Draco corrects, groaning as her delectably bare breasts pleasurably abrade his torso. Her nipples are already beaded and he can feel the growing dampness of her core even through his woollen trousers and cotton boxers. “Wait, sweetheart – I must tell you…”

“Hmmm? Go on, then– ” she hums as she places equidistant kisses along his jawline.

Somehow, Draco manages to cool his blood long enough to solemnly state, “Hermione – I’d love to teach at Hogwarts, or paint at Hogwarts… I’ll do anything and go anywhere, as long as I can be with you.” He shyly ducks his head before looking back at her to elaborate, “Assuming you want me to live with you in the castle, of course. And yes, I do want to work at our alma mater,” he anticipates Hermione’s repeated demand to know his true leanings.

“Thank you, _ma petite_. You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you? Any other surprises for me?” Draco nuzzles below her ear, surreptitiously inhaling her uniquely captivating scent of rose geraniums, bergamot, and vanilla. _Pure Amortentia._

Hermione begins to shake her head, stilling the motion as she recalls, “Yes: we’re going to have dinner with Mum and Dad on Wednesday night. Dad wants to make his ‘famous’ Portuguese butterflied chicken on the barbecue; I hope you like a bit of chilli. Or a lot. His spice measuring techniques are a bit fast and loose.”

“With a side of arsenic for me? Lovely,” Draco grumbles. “Must I go? You know your father is gunning for me, Granger. He wants my head on a platter – just so he can pull out all my teeth at his leisure, I suspect.”

“Dad asked after you, actually. Wanted to know how you were coping, after he read that horrid Prophet article,” Hermione startles him with her admission. “But don’t let him know I told you that he’s softening; he wants to terrorize you a little longer.”

“Happy to oblige,” Draco quips. “I suppose the randy little rascal downstairs is to accompany us? And Granger – you have no idea of the trauma I’ve suffered tonight. _No idea_ ,” he stresses with an exaggerated full-body shudder.

Hermione looks shifty. “Well, about that… I think we should leave Mac here. And he could ask Ruibby to come over, so they can have some… privacy,” she intimates.

“Privacy? What – oh. Oh, no. Dragon’s balls! Under our very roof?!? Do you know what he informed me, just before I fled upstairs? Macdolas assured me that he has ‘the utmost confidence in his future sexings, now that he knows how to usher his Gentleman into Ruibby’s Altar of Venus’!” he indignantly paraphrases.

Hermione is gasping from laughing so fiercely. “W–Would you rather they risk getting caught in flagrante delicto in the Manor? By Lucy, perhaps? Come on, Draco: they’re both of age, and Ruibby’s aggressive pursuit of claiming Mac’s chastity is tying him up in knots,” she wheezes in rebuttal.

 _Knots: I need to insert a small chapter about the do’s and don’ts of bondage._ Draco makes a mental note to include that in the guidebook.

“This is simply ghastly, any way you look at it,” he bemoans. “I just reminded myself to add a chapter on rope play to my elven sex ed manual, for Salazar’s sake!”.

“’Elven sex ed manual’ – you wrote one for Mac?? Oh, Malfoy – you’ve such a kind, soft heart!” Hermione sprinkles adoring kisses over his blushing cheeks.

“Wrote and illustrated one – a tasteful interpretation, I hope. Thought it might be easier than having to detail _everything_ in person,” Draco gruffly explains. “Yes, yes, I realize it’s hilarious,” he grouches as her laughter escalates. “It’s much less funny when you’re living it, believe me. And don’t go attributing altruistic motives to my actions: I find it nigh impossible to deny you anything, as you well know.”

Hermione nods merrily, clearly rejoicing in his admission of devotedness to her every whim. “So it’s agreed? Mac and Ruibby have permission to… indulge in some rumpy-pumpy in his bedroom while we’re out?” she ploughs on, disregarding Draco’s cringe.

“Did you have to couch it in such a fashion?” he whines. “Can’t we – I don’t know – can’t we pack them off to a… a… bed and breakfast, or something?”.

“Malfoy, I have yet to hear of any B&Bs catering to house elves,” Hermione clucks. “And you did tell Mac when he moved in that the old boxroom beside the laundry was his own private domain, to do with as he wished,” she reminds him.

“I should know better than to start a debate with a lawyer. Very well – but you are taking over this wretched business, now. My peace of mind is shot to ribbons,” Draco dramatically declares.

“Pfft. Always with the over-acting,” Hermione ribs. “We can tell Mac in the morning – together,” she winks, her cinnamon eyes shimmering with amusement.

 _Such a cheeky little enchantress_. Draco catches his breath, lost in the sheer delight of desultorily cuddling and conversing with the woman he has desired for so long.

“Ooh! That reminds me – Minerva told me that she believes you protected the First Years when they were subjected to the Carrows’ forced torture… is that true?” Hermione petitions, her aspect growing serious. He stays silent as she continues, “Did you try to shield me too, Draco? Back at the Manor… when Bellatrix…”

His throat closes with an overload of emotion; Draco inclines his chin in the slightest degree.

Hermione thirstily captures his lips, arching up into him and feverishly running her hands all over his broad back and shoulders. The bold stroke of her tongue into his mouth sets him aflame; he responds by settling deeper into the apex of her thighs and driving down to bump his hardness against her warm core. Molten waves of pleasure deluge his senses and shred his prior unselfish intention to let his worn-out lioness achieve some recuperative slumber.

Breathing jaggedly, Draco breaks off from their impassioned kiss to apologize, “I wasn’t able to safeguard you from much of the pain and invasiveness of Bellatrix’s torture that night – I’m so sorry, Hermione, I was hopelessly panicked and terrified for you–” he is unable to finish as the horrible memories stream relentlessly into his psyche.

“Shush… I am amazed that you tried, Draco – and you did help, I felt it, though I didn’t realize it was your intervention. I thought Bellatrix must have been devolving in her hysteria about the Sword of Gryffindor, and that was why the pain eased dramatically.” Hermione cradles his face in her hands as she smiles beatifically and whispers, “Thank you.”

 _Don’t thank me,_ ma chérie _; I didn’t save you, when I should have. I have made so many mistakes…_ Draco tenses his jaw as his doubt and disgust rear their ugly heads.

“Hey, none of that,” Hermione firmly grasps his chin and draws his despondent gaze back to her own determined one. “If you’d tried to free me from your unhinged, evil aunt back then, we’d likely all not have lived to see the dawn. You did protect me, and I am forever grateful, and humbled. You’re a good man with a good heart, Draco… you’re my sweetheart, and I pinch myself every day because I cannot believe my serendipity.”

 _I am going to gush like a defective faucet in a moment._ Draco doesn't dare try to speak, lest he completely disintegrate.

“So – are you going to put your own Gentleman Usher to good use tonight, or what?” Hermione incites, shamelessly nudging his rampant stiffness with her lace-covered mons.

Groaning, Draco inches away. “You’re exhausted, _ma petite_ ; may we take a rain check for tomorrow night, instead? Unless you’re willing to reconsider returning to work tomorrow… I thought not,” he says as Hermione mulishly shakes her head.

“Your seductive pout is ruined by that big yawn,” Draco wryly points out, ignoring her grumpy protest as he rolls off her tempting body to stand. He quickly shucks off his trousers and boxers, leaning over Hermione to tug off her lacy panties in one efficient action. “Under the covers with you, sweetheart.”

Draco flips back the bedding and slides in to spoon against her back; he valiantly ignores the deliberate, slithering fidget of her rump against his groin.

“Go to sleep, _minette_ – tomorrow we’ll either play Hogwarts dress-ups, or ‘Regency Governess Breaks the Rules and is Summarily Punished for It’,” he smiles against her abundant sienna tresses.

“You’ve been reading my book,” Hermione drowsily accuses, lacing her fingers through his as she adjusts his arm below her bare breasts.

“Just the smutty bits,” Draco concedes. “ _Bonne nuit, ma belle sorcière_.” He softly kisses her temple and closes his eyes.

“ _Bonne nuit, mon beau sorcier_.” Hermione falls asleep in a handful of heartbeats. Draco fights sleep for a few minutes, luxuriating in their harmonic intimacy.

_Je suis ton sorcier, Hermione. Pour toujours._

* * *

_Monday 17 March 2003: AM_

“Her Grace Lady Granger – Master Malfoy approaches!” Macdolas’s over-loud, animated announcement jolts Hermione from her focused perusal of the towering backlog of boring administrative files on the right side of her borrowed desk. She takes a moment to (mentally) thank Marilda Sandore once again for having the foresight to temporarily move her into a small spare office in a back corner of the Auror Division.

_I love Mac dearly – but his voice could shatter crystal when he is at the height of his excitability levels. Perhaps he will settle down once we go to Harry’s office for lunch and a catch-up on the case. He’s been climbing the walls ever since we suggested the Wednesday night plan to him over breakfast._

Hermione spares a quick look in the dull mirror above her desk, her heartbeat quickening as she tucks that one aggravating curl back behind her right ear. _My boyfriend is here!_

“You don’t need that mirror to tell you you’re the fairest of them all, _ma petite_.” Draco’s flattering words are as suave as his cultured tones.

Turning to deliver a pithy quip about stealing compliments from fairy tales, Hermione’s mouth parts in surprise and joy as she takes in the massive bunch of lilac and white flowers Draco is holding out. The fine darker purple stripes on the outer petals perfectly offset the paler centres. Mac is beaming by the open doorway… and still jiggling like he’s being lightly electrocuted.

“These are Peruvian lilies; and I shall tell you their floriographic meaning tonight, Granger,” Draco cuts a meaningful look in the direction of the jittery elf.

Trying not to pinken at the sexual intent behind his words, Hermione gathers the fragrant bouquet in both hands. “They’re gorgeous, Malfoy. Thank you.” She leans forward to kiss her appreciation, but is stymied as Macdolas wedges himself between them.

“Macdolas places the glorious blooms in water for Her Grace Lady Granger and reminds his venerable employers that His Most Revered Excellency Auror Harry Potter awaits their combined presence in his office!” he officiously pips.

The flowers are summarily snatched from Hermione’s hands and carefully inserted into a newly magicked ceramic vase on Hermione’s work table.

“Has he been like this all morning?” Draco frowns as they track Macdolas’s gambolling progress around the room. “He looks like Rumpelstiltskin; admittedly, the court jester’s outfit isn’t helping,” he observes.

Swallowing her chuckle, Hermione defends her vivacious little bodyguard. “He must have asked my opinion on which gifts to present to Ruibby at least half a dozen times since we arrived this morning; he’ll calm down by the end of the day, I’m sure,” she avows, sotto voice.

Mac frets at the elasticized hems of his black and green harlequin-patterned jumpsuit. The bells on his bi-horned padded hat and curled-toed Crakow boots jangle as he fusses with his attire.

“Macdolas – you look the very picture of a deranged court attendant. Stop your twiddling and come along,” Draco dryly instructs. He takes Hermione’s right hand in his left as she reaches for Macdolas’s gnarly digits.

“Don’t ruddy _skip_ ,” Draco mutters before Hermione elbows him into silence.

It is a short walk to Harry’s office. Macdolas does the honour of knocking, flinging open the door with gusto as Harry’s low voice grants them entry.

The modest space is filled with people and the enticing smell of hot food. Hermione blinks as she registers Pansy perched atop Harry’s desk; Blaise is occupying one of the two armchairs in front of it, Theo the other. Harry wrenches his brooding stare from Pansy as all the men rise at their approach.

“Hi, Harry, Pansy, Theo, Blaise,” Hermione gives Pansy a quick side hug, kisses Harry’s cheek, squeezes Theo’s wiry arm, and steps neatly out of Blaise’s way as he looms in for a tight embrace. Draco growls and blocks him anyway.

“I didn’t know you guys were joining us for lunch?” Hermione queries. From the corner of her eye, she notes Draco and Blaise tussling briefly over the chair; Draco claims it with a well-timed shove and beckons her over to sit in his lap. Hermione wiggles into it immediately, hiding a smile as he subtly adjusts his position when she mock-innocently rubs against his crotch.

“I ran into Theo when he was on his way up to meet with Blaise and Pansy half an hour ago; he suggested we should all sit down and brainstorm who could be behind the roofie plot,” Harry answers.

“Lightning Bolt told us what happened at your flat yesterday, Hermione – are you OK?” Pansy’s jade eyes gaze at her keenly. Harry makes a cross sound at the nickname, to which Pansy pays no heed.

“I’m fine, Pansy. I feel better knowing that my friends have my back,” she smiles gratefully.

“Whatever you need, Hermione; you only have to ask,” Theo affirms, as he sits back down. Harry remains standing.

“Parkinson – you can have my chair. I don’t know why you wouldn’t take it when I first offered it to you,” Harry gripes.

Pansy tosses her head imperiously. “I’d rather sit atop your desk – my luscious legs are displayed to their best advantage… and knowing that it irks you makes it all the sweeter, Potter,” she goads.

Harry scowls, choosing to ignore Pansy in favour of promoting the wide array of Chinese takeaway dishes to Hermione. “Here – I got your favourites, love. Honey chicken, special fried rice and sweet and sour pork. And beef in black bean sauce, Mongolian lamb, and prawn omelette. Plus there are spring rolls and crispy fried noodles in those white bags,” he points. “Paper plates and chopsticks on the side there.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Hermione quickly fills a single plate for herself and Draco, piling it high as she decides that it will be fun to share. Everyone else follows suit, Mac sidling up to the table ahead of Blaise and helping himself to a generous portion of each container. He sits down on a conveniently located metal filing cabinet and starts scarfing down his luncheon.

 _Watching Mac expertly wield chopsticks is truly a sight to behold_ , Hermione ponders, as she tucks into the delicious spread. Draco takes advantage of her momentary distraction to steal one of her battered pork morsels.

“Come sit in my lap, Golden Girl – I won’t nick your food,” Blaise promises, sitting beside Pansy and patting his strong thighs with his free hand.

Draco answers for her. “Get your own girlfriend, Zabini. Hermione’s mine.” He snuggles her a little closer, being mindful of the plate of food she holds.

Harry sighs. “Must you two constantly rub our noses in your overblown romance?” he snipes; his remonstration carries a sharp edge that is markedly unlike his usually equable temperament.

 _Poor Harry – he is taking on too much. He still looks dog-tired: he mustn’t have gotten a wink of sleep last night._ Hermione doesn’t get a chance to soothe her old friend’s unrest before Pansy jumps in.

“Leave off, Lightning Bolt! Just because you’re a bitter bachelor – it doesn’t give you the right to piss all over our friends’ happiness,” she censures. “Look to what’s lacking in your own life before you criticize other people’s.”

Harry stands up, gripping the edge of his sturdy desk as he snarls, “Going to bang that drum again, Pansy? Since when did you become such an advocate for sloppy sentiment, anyway?”.

“Around the same time you first had that stick lodged up your arse, Harry,” Pansy retorts with vim. “What’s your problem with me? You’ve been grimacing in my direction ever since I walked in.”

Harry sucks in a deep, angry breath. “You want to know what my problem is? Go back five years, Pansy – back to the day you were oh-so-willing to give me up to Voldemort without a second’s hesitation. And yet you’re waltzing around here now like that never happened – as if saving your own skin wasn’t more important than overthrowing a demonic terror,” he rasps furiously.

The room has fallen utterly silent; even Mac has ceased his diligent chomping as he soaks up the sudden melodrama with astounded eyes.

 _Oh, Harry. There’s more to this than meets the eye_ , Hermione sadly ponders.

Pansy unfreezes, precisely laying down her plate and wooden cutlery. She swivels elegantly off the desk, standing to face the angry man behind it. Her carefully blank eyes and rigid spine betray her turmoil.

“I apologize, Auror Potter. For both my reprehensible actions that day, and my oversight in not asking your pardon sooner. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch with your friends.” Pansy smiles tightly and manages to not look a single one of her ex-schoolmates in the eye as she glides toward the door, opening and closing it almost noiselessly.

Everyone remaining in the office stares at Harry with varying degrees of concern and accusation. Before any of them can speak, Harry fists at his hair and moans in self-directed frustration.

“I know - I’m an arsehole, alright? I’m sorry – I don’t know what came over me… just seeing her sitting there, baiting me… swinging her legs…” he growls anew.

“I have a fair idea what’s going on,” Theo murmurs, as Harry’s head whips around to glare at him.

“I’d best go after her; you really hurt her then, Harry,” Hermione begins to slide off Draco’s lap, but his arm hooking around her waist holds her in position.

“No you won’t, Granger – Potter is going to find her, and apologize profusely,” Draco sternly intones. “He will do whatever it takes to restore her equilibrium, and bring her back to his office. Go on, Harry – run along,” he urges.

To Hermione’s surprise, Harry hustles to the door without a word of objection, leaving it ajar in his haste.

“His Excellency Master Harry Potter speaks cruelly to the Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson,” Macdolas sorrowfully remarks. He looks longingly at Pansy’s half-finished plate, swiftly dropping his avaricious eyes as Draco frowns at him.

“Well, that escalated quickly, didn’t it?” Blaise jabs a chopstick in the air as he announces, “I’m running a betting pool: I’ll stump up fifty Galleons that those two will be rolling in the sack by the end of the Spring Equinox Ball. Any takers?”.

“Blaise!” Hermione’s squawk is drowned out as Draco and Theo simultaneously reply, “You’re on.”

“Excellent,” Blaise grins. “Care to nominate your preferred timelines?”

Hermione wrests herself free of Draco’s slackened hold to round on the juvenile men. “Forget it! No one is taking that bet, Blaise. I’m sure you’re way off base, anyway. Harry’s just under a lot of stress, that’s all.”

She grits her teeth as the Slytherins share the same pitying look at her opinion. “What?”.

Draco hesitantly expounds, “Granger… though you are the most intelligent and savvy person I’ve ever met… in this instance, you can’t see the Forbidden Forest for the Whumping Willows, _ma petite_. You could have started a fire with the heat coming off Potter and Pansy right now. Harry wasn’t irate because of historic misdeeds; he was riled up by Pansy’s proximity.”

 _Wait – really?_ Hermione’s comprehension of the tense situation shifts as each wizard nods in turn. She flops back down onto Draco’s lap as she struggles to process this astonishing new development. He affectionately kisses the side of her ear.

“I’d be extremely surprised if both of them don’t appear somewhat… rumpled when they come back,” Blaise asserts.

The final word goes to Macdolas, after he swallows his last mouthful of rich Chinese fare.

“Macdolas asks Master Malfoy if ‘rolling in the sack’ is the same as playing ‘hide the sausage’? And is ‘dancing the Paphian jig’ exactly the same as ‘making butter with one’s tail’? Macdolas has many questions requiring answers,” he earnestly pronounces.

With the exception of Draco, the humans burst into laughter in unison. Hermione laughs even harder as she hears Draco’s petulant response.

“Humping Hufflepuffs – is it Wednesday yet??”.

* * *

**French translation:**

_t’es si sucrée_ – you taste so sweet

 _Bonne nuit, ma belle sorcière_ – Goodnight, my beautiful witch.

 _Bonne nuit, mon beau sorcier_ – Goodnight, my handsome wizard.

 _Je suis ton sorcier, Hermione. Pour toujours._ – I am your wizard, Hermione. Always.

* * *

The following ficlet details what transpired between Harry and Pansy, after they left his office: [Harry's Apology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892955/chapters/66221821)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quoted excerpt blurb is from 'Rules of Surrender' by Christina Dodd, published in 2002.


	48. Scenario

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please note: the Dramione role-play scene in this chapter may present as 'non-consensual', but both parties have negotiated and given their prior consent, and the scene would stop immediately if that were to be withdrawn at any time.**

__

_Monday 17 March 2003: PM_

“OK, Pansy – spill,” Hermione smiles at Mac before she firmly closes the door to her temporary office; her diminutive elvish bodyguard is standing stoically in position in the hallway, looking surprisingly alert considering how hard his digestive system must be working after their long lunch with Harry. She shakes her head indulgently as she remembers Mac managing to sneak past Draco long enough to appropriate Pansy’s abandoned plate, after all.

“Spill what? If you’re looking for gossip on what happened when Potter caught up to me – there’s nothing to tell,” Pansy sniffs, conveniently burying her nose in the redolent purplish lilies sitting on Hermione’s desk.

“Really? Your smeared lipstick tells a different story,” Hermione chides, laughing as Pansy immediately raises her head like a startled fawn.

“What? No– it’s colour-stay!” Pansy hurries to stand in front of the shabby little mirror. She ceases fussing at her immaculate maquillage as she realizes she’s been had. “Ha ha, very funny.” Pansy folds her arms and releases a world-weary sigh.

“Nothing happened: Harry kissed me as part of his apology, that’s all.” Her dazzling viridian green eyes still refuse to meet Hermione’s acute regard.

“Huh. Harry’s dishevelled hair and robes robes hinted at something else entirely, Pansy.” _Goodness gracious… is Pansy actually blushing?_ Hermione marvels at the unexpected vision.

“Potter’s general slovenliness has nothing to do with me,” Pansy haughtily asserts. “I mean – what’s going on with his hairstyle, anyway? Does he cut it himself with a bowl and a pair of nail scissors? He’s a primary representative of the Ministry and he should look and dress the part – not slob about like a… like a…” she trails off as Hermione clucks her tongue pityingly.

“’The lady doth protest too much, methinks’… Come on, Pansy, your secret’s safe with me,” Hermione soothes. “We’re friends now, aren’t we? I promise not to breathe a word to Draco… though the boys were the ones who had to remove my blinkers, after the fraught sexually-charged performance you and Harry acted out in his office,” Hermione admits.

“Fuckity fuck fuck _FUCK_ ,” Pansy snarls. “I loathe being the subject of spurious gossip! It’s none of their bloody business! That fathead Blaise teed off on me, didn’t he?” she demands.

Hermione hurries to assuage Pansy’s aggravation. “No, they weren’t disrespectful, Pansy. Well, Blaise did want to start a betting pool – never mind,” she glosses over Zabini’s roguish proposition. “We were all worried about you, and when Draco ordered Harry to go after you and grovel until you returned, Harry practically flew out the door in pursuit,” she explains.

“He– he did?” Pansy breathes, looking oddly young and uncertain. She swiftly regains her composure, lifting an elegant shoulder to shrug, “Potter’s cursed with an overactive conscience, that’s all. He probably rescues flies trapped between sliding window panes. Bleeding Heart Syndrome up the wazoo,” she mutters.

Moving cautiously, Hermione gathers the stiff Slytherin woman in a quick hug. “You looked like you needed that,” she justifies her embrace. “I’m sorry for what Harry said to you; it was most unlike him to be unkind.”

“He only spoke the truth. I _was_ willing to sacrifice him – or I thought I was,” Pansy glumly whispers, her pristine posture slumping as she leans against the desk. “Do you ever wish you could meet your teenage self and just shake some much-needed sense into her? I thought I’d made peace with that crass version of me… I guess it remains a bit raw.”

“Oh, I still cringe thinking about how insufferably righteous I was,” Hermione confesses. “No wonder I had a reputation for being an obnoxious little prig. I didn’t mean to come across like that… I was defensive about my heritage, and utterly hell-bent on proving my right to be a witch,” she sighs.

“But we’re talking about you… and Harry,” she steers the conversation back on track. “Pansy – do you have feelings for him?” she asks softly.

As expected, Pansy instantly scoffs. “I’ve a yen to jump his bones, if that’s what you mean,” she quibbles. “Though I couldn’t tell you why – he’s such a… a….”

“It’s interesting how you’re having trouble choosing the right descriptor,” Hermione dryly notes. “Could it be because you haven’t admitted to yourself that your attraction runs deeper than lust?”.

“Oof – look at you, chatting so freely about the baser human conditions,” Pansy is quick to retort. “Draco’s been a terrible influence on the Good Golden Girl!”.

“Or a brilliant one, depending on your point of view,” Hermione rebuts. “Don’t deflect, please: I am genuinely concerned for you, and I want to help… as your friend.” She furtively crosses her fingers behind her back, hoping Pansy doesn’t react negatively to the tentative olive branch.

The silence expands, finally broken by Pansy stepping away from the desk to give a flabbergasted Hermione a proper, tight hug. “You’re a real sweetheart, Hermione. Thank you.”

 _Is Pansy… sniffling?_ Hermione wills her expression to remain amiable and not alarmed at the unexpected display of emotion from her fierce new friend.

Drawing back, Pansy reveals, “I’ve crafted a new persona for myself out of the ashes of the old one – and I’m happy with who I am now – but every now and then, I get lonely… My family disowned me, you know. I don’t miss _them_ per se, but I miss knowing that there are people in the world who care about me, people who would drop everything if I asked them for help, you know?’.

“Oh, I detest myself for being soppy like this! I think that’s why I come on too strong with Potter – it’s a defence mechanism. I’ll try to tone it down, I know he’s sensitive and unused to my barbs and stings,” she mutters.

Patting Pansy’s taut shoulder consolingly, Hermione hums her empathy.

“Luna’s been wonderful, but I don’t get to spend time with her often… and when Har– Potter called me out in front of you guys, I was zapped straight back to that awful day, and being marched to the dungeons in disgrace…” Her velvet green eyes are dulled with the memories of shame and regret.

“I understand, Pansy. Especially about missing having a family to support you: but please know, we’re your family now. Me, Draco, Luna, Theo – even Blaise, though he is a terrible ruffian,” Hermione nudges her hip against Pansy’s, relieved to see the raven-haired witch sporting a faint smile.

“And maybe you’re not ready to hear this – but Harry cares about you, too. He was simply wild with himself when he realized how badly he’d hurt you. And you’re right: maybe you should dial back your aggressive flirting a little; while I admire and respect your forthrightness, Harry is unaccustomed to that level of… pugnacity. I’ve known him for over half my life, so I am somewhat of an authority on the man, alright?”.

Determining that Pansy may have reached her limit of deep and meaningful discourse for one day, Hermione makes one final statement. “Pansy, whatever happens between you and Harry is entirely your business, but I want you to know that as your friend, I am here to talk about it, vent, cry, offer (probably inept) advice – anything you need. And I won’t be playing favourites, either. OK?”.

Smoothing her palms down the fitted skirt of her gorgeous indigo fit-and-flare dress, Pansy nods her acceptance and smiles candidly.

 _Gosh, Harry is a goner if Pansy turns that guileless countenance on him,_ Hermione thinks with an inner chuckle.

“So… is there any chance I could ask you to buy and deliver a nightgown to me by this evening, please? High-necked, lots of buttons, semi-transparent white cotton? Regency-style?” Hermione changes the subject and adopts a supremely casual air while making the clothing request.

The last vestiges of Pansy’s melancholy dissipate as she tips back her stylish head and laughs throatily. “Isn’t that interesting? Draco sidled up to me when I returned to lunch and quietly asked about purchasing an eighteenth century men’s silk banyan,” she muses, tapping her manicured nails against her ruby-lipsticked mouth in a pretension of bemused contemplation.

“I wonder what games the two of you are planning for tonight’s entertainment, hmmm?” she continues teasing, as Hermione’s face flames crimson.

“Can you get the nightie or not, please,” Hermione maunders, now wishing that Mac were free to go shopping for her instead.

Pansy squeezes her arm affectionately. “Of course I can, Little Miss Role-Play. It will be waiting for you when you get back to the townhouse. Provided you answer one teensy question for me…” she baits.

“Is this scenario you’re planning going to be mostly improvised, or will you be working off a set script of some sort?” Pansy’s query succeeds in Hermione’s blood rush deepening.

“I’m going to write a short script in my afternoon tea break,” Hermione reluctantly acknowledges. “Why is that so funny?” she asks aggrievedly.

“You two are such dorks,” Pansy guffaws, as she heads for the door. “Good luck, Pollyanna. I might send a couple of gowns – Draco might wish to rip the first one clean off you,” she smirks.

Before she departs, Pansy turns to say, “Hey, Hermione? Thanks. I’m glad you’re my friend.”

“Yeah – me too. Talk to you soon, Pansy,” Hermione smiles and waves goodbye.

Mac slips in through the door, looking chuffed with the light forehead kiss Pansy bequeaths as she strides past him. He cocks his head puzzledly as Hermione thumps her burning forehead against the cool wood of her old desk a few times.

“Does Her Grace Lady Granger practise headbutts? Macdolas advises a softer surface for repeated thwacks,” he decrees. “Macdolas learns the unforgiving nature of wood for self-castigation purposes before he becomes a free elf.”

 _Oh, Mac - you darling little creature._ Hermione squashes her loyal little guard into a tender hug. “Don’t you ever go walloping yourself as punishment again, Mac – do you hear me? Or I shall be both cross and very upset,” she cautions.

Mac’s answering toothy smile would have her father in dentistry-based raptures if he could but see it. “Macdolas doubts he shall ever again feel the need for self-correction, Her Grace! He floats on Cloud Nineteen thinking about his Wednesday evening rendezvous with the superlative and seductive Ruibby!” he crows.

“It’s ‘Cloud Nine’, sweetie,” Hermione gently corrects. “Perhaps you should try to settle down a little; Wednesday is still a ways away, and you don’t want to tie yourself in knots before the… main event, hmmm?”. _Knots – now I’m thinking about him tying up his little blonde girlfriend. Oh dear._

Her benign advice has little effect on Macdolas’s ebullient mood, as he merely shrugs before skipping circles around her desk. ‘Wind him up and watch him go’, as Draco had laconically commented this morning. Hermione is relieved when her hyperactive fey bodyguard picks up an ancient feather duster and polishing rag tucked in a dusty corner and sets himself to telekinetically cleaning her office.

_Four more hours of boring slog here, then my therapy session with Dr Rica… then home to Draco..._

_I can’t wait._

* * *

“Why are you pricks still here, circling me like bloody sharks?” Potter grumbles, scratching at his scalp like a dog with fleas.

Draco puffs out a frustrated breath. “Because someone needs to give you some tips on the best way to handle Ms Pansy Parkinson – watching you ineptly lurching around her is painful and maddening, alright? Plus, we need to further discuss Operation Acromantula,” he reminds the cranky Auror.

“I told you everything we know when the girls were still here,” Potter objects, rocking back on his shabby office chair until it creaks in protest.

“Don’t call them girls – they’re women,” Theo corrects, steepling his lean fingers beneath his chin.

Blaise barrels in. “Stow the semantics, Harry meant it as a term of affection, right mate? I reckon we should revisit that idea you had about taking Polyjuice Potion to impersonate Granger and ‘staking a goat’ at the Ball, so to speak,” he prompts.

Everyone looks at Draco: he had vociferously supported Hermione’s indignant refusal to countenance the proposition.

“No way – _no way_ am I going to go behind Hermione’s back on this. Just the thought of Potter looking and dressing as Granger makes me physically ill,” he carps. “I don’t need that in my head – ever.’

“And she’s right, you don’t have any proof that this sicko is planning something on the night of the Gala, anyway. It’s being held in the heart of the Ministry, for goodness sake! He’d be mad to try it on then,” Draco avers.

Harry rebuts, “Flint attempted to snatch her on her way back from the Courtrooms, Malfoy – I think we can correctly assume these bastards are recklessly overconfident, and use that knowledge in our favour.”

“I won’t keep secrets from my belov– from Granger,” Draco sticks to his guns and wills away his blush at the abbreviated endearment. “Forget that harebrained scheme, Hermione would have all our guts for garters if we tried it. More importantly, we all discussed your list of suspects – and it could be any of them, or someone we’ve glossed over entirely,” he frowns. “Also, it might be someone from an earlier, or later generation. You need to broaden your search parameters.”

“Your list _is_ heavy on the Slytherins and light on the other houses, Harry,” Theo remarks. “Adrian Pucey, Gregory Goyle, Terence Higgs, Yatin Bhagat… I doubt they’re capable of this kind of fell scheme.”

“Greg is truly a changed man since the War, Potter,” Draco chimes in. “Almost being immolated by Fiendfyre was an excellent motivator to rethink his philosophy on blood prejudice, as it happens.”

Blaise adds, “Yeah, and I still catch up occasionally with Adrian and Terence – they’re good guys, and I’ve never seen any indication that either of them are into anything dodgy. Yatin has been pursuing his true calling providing humanitarian aid in the mountain villages of Nepal for the last two years. You need to cast your net further afield, Harry.”

“Well then – which names do you geniuses want to add to the tally, huh?” Harry snaps. “I’m not trying to be prejudiced against the Green Gang, I’m just struggling to find some evidence to point us in the right direction.”

Draco squeezes the bridge of his nose, irritated by Harry’s defensiveness. “Take a deep breath, Potter. What about Marcus Belby? He was in tight with the Slug Club: maybe he made some unsavoury friends there.”

“Or Terry Boot? Cormac McLaggen? They both showed some interest in Hermione at Hogwarts,” Theo pipes up.

“Highly unlikely – who else are you going to accuse? Seamus Finnegan?” Harry scoffs. “All those blokes fought against Voldemort and the Death Eaters in the Final Battle, remember.”

The brunette wizard’s seemingly automatic defence of his fellow Gryffindors riles up Draco instantly. “You just can’t see it, can you?!? People change, Potter. Seamus Finnegan was always quick to badmouth you when Voldemort first started making your life hell, as I recall,” he cuttingly reminds. “Finnegan was constantly directed by his mother’s opinions – who’s to say a darker influence didn’t persuade him to switch allegiances?”.

 _Come on, Lightning Bolt – you need to be smarter than this. Hermione – and untold other witches and wizards – remain in peril while this scumbag is still lurking in the shadows._ Draco’s expression turns savage at the thought.

Blaise’s mien has lost all of his usual easy-going bonhomie as he stiffly asserts, “You know most of us came back with Slughorn and battled against Voldemort too, right? I’m getting really fucking sick of all the anti-Snake rhetoric that continues to dog our footsteps.” He folds his arms and glares at Harry.

“Peter Pettigrew was Sorted into Gryffindor,” Theo quietly appends. “The Hat isn’t foolproof – and we are all capable of making critical choices to change our fates, and our characters.”

“Mother always says that ‘everyone is capable of anything’… and that cuts both ways.” Draco hopes that Harry is finally beginning to understand their position, as the bespectacled Auror’s aspect morphs through varying stages of anger, disbelief, abashment… and clarity.

 _It’s a marvel that Potter’s hair hasn’t fallen out in clumps, given the way he ritually abuses it._ Draco winces as Harry grips his thick charcoal locks and worries at them again.

“Yeah… I’m sorry, guys. I see your point. I shouldn’t assume that red is good and green is bad. I’ll get to work investigating the rest of your suggested suspects,” Harry concedes, looking deflated. “Anything else you want to talk about?”.

“Pansy. What are your intentions toward her?” Draco gruffly challenges, deliberately replicating Potter’s prior question to him during their first meeting in Interrogation Room Two. “You need to realize – Pansy presents a tough front, but her hard outer shell has been developed to protect her oft-wounded heart. I won’t allow you to toy with her affections, Potter. If you intend to woo her, come chat with me about the best approach beforehand, do you hear?”.

Theo and Blaise snicker as Harry shakes his head, projecting discomfort and discombobulation. “Your interfering counsel is superfluous, Malfoy! We just had a little spat. I already told you – I apologized for lashing out at her. The case has me on edge… we sorted our differences, and agreed to keep our interactions harmonious for the sake of the group,” he blathers.

“How lovely – but you did not answer my original query.” Draco is merciless. Witnessing Potter squirm in his ugly chair is both satisfying and amusing. _It’s nice to not be the man currently being razzed for refusing to acknowledge his true sentiments, too._

“Just because you’re bobbing along happily in the Sea of Love with my best friend – it doesn’t mean the rest of us are itching to follow suit, you know. Pansy and I are – friends. Well, we will be. Friendly. We are, I mean.” Harry grabs the page of parchment nearest him and holds it in front of his scarlet face. “You can all leave now – I’ve got important research to begin.”

“Have you asked Pansy to be your date for Saturday night?” Theo enquires.

“No – I’m going with Ron, anyway,” Harry divulges. He returns the sheaf of vellum to its stack and drums his agile fingers on the desktop with weary resignation as he awaits their ribbing.

“Good for you, Potter. You won’t be the only same-sex couple in attendance: but you’ll definitely garner the most attention,” Blaise nods approvingly.

“Before you throw shade in my direction, know that Pansy and Luna are accompanying each other, too,” Harry warns. “Piss off already, you lot! You invite yourselves in here, mooch my Chinese banquet, and offer unsolicited and UNECESSARY relationship advice – get going before you really test my patience,” he grouses.

“You’re welcome,” Draco rises; with a wink to his schoolmates, they all perform low bows and cackle, jostling each other as they depart the crabby Gryffindor’s non-descript office.

Blaise gets in the last (cheeky) word before the wizardly trio go their separate ways.

“Do you reckon Potter and Weasley will gift each other matching corsages?”.

* * *

Draco pounces as soon as he sees his tired brunette girlfriend trudging through the Floo: Hermione barely clears the mantle before she is hauled into his tight, enveloping hug. Macdolas skitters clear of the closely entwined human couple and darts toward the townhouse’s kitchen as Draco scatters tender kisses across Hermione’s face.

She giggles as she tries to reciprocate; Draco holds her head steady for a last, smacking smooch, delighted to note her mood has visibly elevated.

“How was therapy, _ma petite_? And your first day back at work? Have you spoken with your supervisor about giving notice? Is Pansy OK? Has Macdolas chilled out yet? Are you hungry?”. His barrage of questions ends.

“Whoa there, cowboy: you’re starting to copy my interrogative mannerisms, and it’s alarming,” Hermione jests. “Anyone would think you hadn’t seen me for five hours!”.

“Five hours, seven minutes, and nine seconds,” Draco solemnly amends. “I’m glad you comprehend my torment, Granger.” He whisks off her work bag from her shoulder, gently pushes her onto the light blue couch, and kneels to undo and slip off her pumps.

“I’ve made chicken and leek pie with green salad for dinner – hopefully, our love-manic elf is dishing it up as we speak. Would you like me to ask Macdolas to bring it out here to eat in front of the television?”. He nods to the boxy appliance now positioned on the sideboard.

“Oh – I forgot to ask you if it was alright – Mac and I brought it back from my flat on Saturday morning,” Hermione guiltily explains. “I can return it if it’s a bother… I realize it doesn’t exactly fit your Scandinavian décor. Sorry.”

Draco rushes to negate the suggestion he is displeased. “Of course I don’t mind! This is your home, and I want you to be comfortable. It will be a delight to snuggle up with you to watch more literary adaptations, and whatnot,” he smiles.

Hermione beams her relief. “Thank you, Malfoy. I’m afraid Mac has begun watching live TV, though. He’s already heavily into cartoons – I think soapies aren’t far behind,” she laughs.

“Why is it that with every passing day, I’m more and more convinced I’ve reluctantly become a father of sorts – to our kooky house elf? I know – I was the one who brought him here, and foisted him onto you,” he acknowledges. Sliding his arms around her waist, he breathes, “I don’t regret it for a second; Macdolas significantly accelerated our relationship timeline… and saved your life. I can never repay my debt to the hectic imp.”

He leans forward, teasing apart her warm and pliant lips with the tip of his tongue before intensifying their lip-lock, charting the shape of her mouth with gladdened gusto. Hermione links her hands behind his neck, her fingertips ruffling the short fair hairs there. Draco bumps her nose with his own in his eagerness to reduce the distance between them to nothing; Hermione breaks away to chuckle as he swiftly apologizes.

“It’s OK, Draco… but if you keep this up, I will have to skip supper altogether in favour of leading you upstairs,” she winks naughtily. “Ooh, that reminds me – I’ve written an outline for our evening plans.” She scrabbles in her work bag and pulls out a sheet of closely-written parchment.

“Pansy made fun of my organizational habits, but I think deep down she’s merely envious of our connection,” Hermione huffs.

“Eh – I said much the same to Potter. I’m quite enjoying spectating their silly little courtship dance… provided he doesn’t bumble about overmuch and inadvertently hurt her,” Draco discloses. “By the way, she sent you a package,” he points to the soft square parcel on the coffee table.

“Excellent! I’m really looking forward to tonight,” Hermione claps her hands gleefully. He can’t help but notice the way the gesture makes her rounded breasts jiggle beneath her plain cream cotton business shirt and unbuttoned khaki jacket.

 _She’s so innocently charming – and so amazingly sexy_. Draco is about to suggest saving the pie and salad for later when Macdolas bounces back into the lounge room.

“Doth Her Grace Lady Granger and Master Malfoy wish Macdolas to serve their plain but nourishing dinner in the living room? Macdolas is happy to oblige,” he chirps.

 _‘Plain but nourishing’: that’s the last time I sing his praise_ s, Draco glowers.

“Thank you, Mac, the dining table is fine. We’ll be in directly,” Hermione answers. “Come along, handsome,” she tows a willing Draco behind her.

She pauses just shy of the entry to the kitchen/dining room. “ _Mon cœur_ , before I forget – therapy was effective, though draining; work was busy, but boring; I told Mrs Sandore about the possibility of my resignation; Pansy is fine; Macdolas remains a livewire; and yes, I am hungry.’

“Now… will you tell me about your day, please? I missed you too, you know… my clever, talented, beautiful wizard.” Hermione lays her head against Draco’s chest and pats his brawny shoulder affectionately as they walk together to the ash wood table. Macdolas buzzes about underfoot like a three-foot high mosquito.

Before he replies, Draco takes a moment to savour how extraordinarily **right** this scenario feels.

_This wonderfully warm-hearted witch is the absolute crux of my existence – I’d tolerate a thousand rascally sprites to keep her there for the rest of my life…_

_Though I do wish this particular scamp came with an ‘off’ switch._

* * *

Bidding goodnight to Macdolas, Hermione checks her appearance in the hallway looking glass before turning off the rest of the downstairs lights. The beeswax candle lodged in the brass candlestick that Mac produced before he’d departed for Malfoy Manor (after enthusiastically showing Hermione Draco’s elven sex ed book and telling her he was keen to show it to Ruibby tonight) is already lit.

The low light of the taper displays a hint of the semi-transparency of her high-necked, snow white nightgown. _Pansy came through brilliantly on the last-minute request_. The garment appears modest in its chin-to-ankle coverage, but the fact that she is wholly bare beneath it – and the thinness of the cotton – gives it a subtly wanton quality that Hermione finds quite titillating.

 _Wait until Lord Cortland Culpepper gets a load of Miss Elspeth Fernsby,_ Hermione grins to herself as she carefully holds clear her long hem and starts to ascend the staircase. _He’s going to be putty in my governess’s hands. I do hope he’s quit whining about his assigned character name by now._

Tromping heavily on the landing (as arranged), Hermione fakes a gasp of shock as the bedroom door opens. A backlit Draco snakes out a hand to grasp her right forearm.

“Miss Fernsby – a word? It shan’t take but a minute,” he pulls her inside the bedroom and firmly closes the door behind them.

Her gulp of surprise is genuine, this time: for the modern bed with its padded fabric headboard has been magnificently Transfigured into a canopy four poster, complete with ornate burgundy drapery and tasselled curtain tiebacks. The rest of the furniture has been similarly transformed, creating the stunning effect of a rich gentleman’s private boudoir. A large candelabra provides the only source of illumination.

Hermione finds her voice. “Lord Culpepper – this is most unseemly–” she nervously protests, as Draco guides her toward the end of the huge bed and seats her against the heavy carved post.

“Come, Miss Fernsby, you’ve nothing to fear from me; I simply wish to enquire on the progress of my wards’ education,” he rumbles. “And perhaps you would be so kind as to read me a short chapter from my current novel… I fear my eyes are sadly strained and unfocused tonight.” Draco sinuously arranges his lean form against the fat white pillows, the gaping neckline of his sapphire blue silk banyan showing a goodly expanse of his muscly ivory chest.

“Bethany and Meredith are both intelligent and industrious, my Lord,” Hermione murmurs, transfixed by Draco’s incarnation of all her historical romance fantasies as he indolently lounges a few feet away and watches her like a hawk, cloud-grey eyes glimmering.

“Excellent. If you don’t mind, Miss Fernsby?” he picks up ‘Rules of Surrender’ off the pillow beside him and pushes it into her hands, intentionally lingering the stroke of his long fingers. “Here’s my place,” he points to the pertinent paragraph.

Clearing her throat, Hermione primly begins.

“ _’He caught her lower lip in his teeth and, when she gasped, took her mouth with his tongue. He filled her with his flavor, probed her, enticed her–‘_ Lord Culpepper, this is unmitigated, licentious… obscenity! I fear you have lured me to your bedchamber under false pretences, sirrah!” She makes her outrage clear as she jumps to her bare feet.

Draco is on her in a flash, pinning her hands behind her back as he nuzzles at her jawline. “Not so fast… Elspeth. I’ve seen the sly, inflamed looks you’ve arrowed in my direction, little governess. Your curiosity betrays you, my dear. And do call me Cortland… I’ve a yen to hear my name upon your panting lips.”

“Let me go!” Hermione cries; her budded nipples press into Draco’s torso through the flimsy fabric, heightening her swelling desire. “You’re grossly abusing your position, Culpepper!”.

He clucks his tongue deprecatingly. “Say ‘Cortland’, darling: and fear not, I will not take your virtue… unless you ask me nicely. There are many other ways to bring you to peak, sweetling.” Draco nips at her ear, dragging his warm lips down to the frilled neck of her nightie.

“Culpepper – Cor-Cortland, I beg you to desist… unhand me…” she unevenly beseeches. Already she is having trouble remembering her own dialogue, such is the mind-blowing effect of Draco’s touch on her vibrating skin. Goosebumps are erupting along her neck and arms as he crowds her until her back is fully pressed to the post, her hands looped behind it.

Winding the nearby curtain tieback around her wrists, he quickly secures it to the wooden support, breaking character briefly to whisper, “Remember your safe word, _ma petite_ ,” before re-assuming the part of the lecherous lord.

“Now… let me deal with this pesky, provocative shroud forthwith–” Draco grabs the sides of her buttoned collar and ruthlessly rips it clean down the middle, all the way to the bottom hem as Hermione thrashes against the bedpost.

His wolfish grin at the sight of her bared breasts and damp sex makes her even wetter. _This is much hotter than I’d anticipated,_ she thinks feverishly, thrusting out her breasts in the hope Draco will take the unsubtle hint.

“Such pretty bubbies...” Draco cups them eagerly, strumming at her rose-pink areolae with increasing vigour, flexing to apply his tongue and teeth to them in turn. Hermione whimpers as his artistic fingers seek out her glossy coffee curls and puffy folds.

“You like that, _acushla_? Your enticing cunny loves my fingers, hmmm? So tight… and hot–” he slips inside as her head flops onto her chest. She surrenders to the almost-excruciating rapture of having her pleasure points expertly stimulated.

The experience appears to be affecting Draco equally intensely, judging by his grating respiration and bedewed skin. The rococo banyan has fully come apart as he half-crouches over her writhing body; Hermione catches glimpses of his straining erection when he shifts restlessly.

“Cortland – take me, make me yours,” she sobs, improvising an acceleration of their plotline. “Please… I need to feel you inside me…”

“You’ll belong to me, and me alone, Elspeth – is that what you want? Decide quickly, angel,” Draco urges.

“Yes – yes–” Hermione tests the bonds of the tasselled tieback as she leans closer. Her fetters are rapidly loosened, before Draco tugs her supplicant body to lie supine on the bed, now binding her wrists above her head and refastening the curtain rope to the post. He shucks off the blue silk gentlemanly wrapper in one fluid motion, before crawling predatorily atop her.

“Open up, little governess – I ache to feel your trembling quim clamp down on my thick cock,” he croons, helping to nudge apart her legs. Balancing above her on one elbow, he places his left hand against her cheek and gazes fiercely into her passion-blown dark pupils.

“Now, Cortland,” Hermione moans.

With a powerful snap of his hips, Draco plunges inside her soaked sheath until he bottoms out, stretching her softness with his tumid length and girth. They groan in unison as Draco continues surging back and forth, each driving thrust a shade more powerful than the last. Her hips and legs stretched as wide as she can splay them, Hermione revels in the ripples of bliss that their primitive joining is creating.

“Elspeth – your honeypot is the sweetest I’ve ever known,” Draco mumbles, his eyes as wild as his pelvic rhythm. “I intend to fuck you all night, darling,” he grunts.

Hermione ruts against him desperately, shuddering as Draco’s cock keeps rubbing and twisting her clitoral wall. She arches up as he pushes down, chasing her apex with more enthusiasm than finesse. The pressure building in her burning loins is nearly painful, such is its profundity.

“ _Ma petite_ – I cannot hold off, I’m coming,” Draco yells; bearing down hard, Hermione milks him savagely. His release finally precipitates her own, each hot spurt setting off another convulsion inside her. Nerves aflame, Hermione clamours, “Draco!”; she rides out the glorious carnal experience with her blond lover until they collapse in total satiation. The now-familiar miniscule dancing dots of their merged magical nuclei drift across their sprawled forms.

Uncharted minutes pass, as they lie side-by-side in the big canopy bed, tenderly exchanging enervated little kisses. Draco unties her hands, checking for any redness or soreness before gently gathering her into his arms.

Hermione is the first to regain the power of speech.

“Lord Culpepper… are you pleased with the results of Miss Fernsby’s scriptwriting endeavours?” she teases.

Rolling her into a recumbent position again, Draco chuckles. “Oh, Elspeth… just wait until you read the ‘letter of recommendation’ I plan to compose on your behalf…!”

Her giggles are smothered by his descending mouth; Hermione happily decides that ‘role-play’ is _definitely_ here to stay.

* * *

The quoted excerpt is from ‘Rules of Surrender’ by Christina Dodd, published 2002 (page 240).

 _Acushla_ (1825): is an Irishism (derived from “a chuisle”, "heartbeat") used to mean "darling, dear”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone like to hazard a guess as to Hermione or Draco's 'safe words'?  
> Hope you enjoyed the little trip down Regency Lane, guys!  
> Thank you all very much for reading.  
> 💗😁💗 VJ.


	49. Spectre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys.  
> Thank you so much for your awesome guesses as to what their safe words could be.  
> You conceived of much better ones than I did! They were all fantastic, funny, and clever.  
> For the record, I imagined Hermione's is 'Quidditch' and Draco's is 'Ferret'.  
> I truly love the interactive aspect of writing this story as a WiP - I am shamelessly 'borrowing' many of your ideas, and I appreciate your input very much.  
> 💗😊💗

**Trigger warning: discussion of a traumatic nightmare at the start of this chapter [mentions of apocalypse, intense fire and imagined character deaths]**

__

_Tuesday 18 March 2003: AM_

"Granger, wake up– wake up, darling– it’s just a bad dream– Hermione, please!” Draco raises his voice as his alarm swiftly rockets toward panic. Hermione is still thrashing jerkily in his loose hold, whimpering like a child.

“Lumos!”. Activating the bedside lamps does nothing to alleviate his concern: tears are streaming unchecked down his girlfriend’s haunted face. He clutches her tighter, struggling to curtail her flailing limbs. Her wordless cries make his hackles rise, such is the depth of terror and pain they transmit.

“Shhhh, _ma petite_ , it’s alright, you are safe here... wake up.... Please wake up,” Draco implores, spooked by her continuing convulsions and the accelerated radial pulses beneath his encircling hands. He is on the verge of uttering ‘Rennervate’ to forcibly awaken her when Hermione’s eyes finally snap open.

Whipping her head frenziedly, Hermione gulps in a lungful of oxygen and stares at him incomprehensibly for a few moments, before awareness relaxes her rigid muscles and she slumps against him. Sitting up against the padded headboard, Draco is doubly glad he made the effort to return the Transfigured four poster canopy bed back to its original state before they fell asleep last night last night; waking up in unfamiliar surrounds would have surely exacerbated Hermione’s dread.

He trails his fingers softly down her naked back, pulling up the comforter to drape around her shuddering shoulders as her breathing slowly begins to regulate.

“You’re safe here, _ma pauvre lionne triste_ ,” Draco murmurs. He gently strokes her damp brunette curls away from her clammy face.

Relieved that he can no longer feel fresh tears dripping onto his shoulder and chest, Draco waits until her hiccoughing sobs have dwindled to soft snuffles before he quietly asks, “What’s wrong, Granger? I’m here to listen, if it would help to speak about it.”

“I had a nightmare. Probably because of therapy today. I used to have this bad dream recur when I was small. Usually when I was studying too much, or when the other kids–” Hermione abruptly breaks off her uncharacteristically staccato explanation, tensing in his hold. 

“Never mind. It was a bit different this time, that’s all,” she rasps, trying to lean away.

Sighing, Draco lightly grasps her little chin in his fingers and turns her mulish face back to his. “Sweetheart, if you truly don’t wish for me to cuddle you, or if you’re not ready to talk, I will accept that. But please don’t feel embarrassed – or deny yourself what paltry comfort I can provide – because you are worried what I may think of you, hmmm?” he coaxes. “You can tell me anything, Hermione. I won’t judge you. Come, didn’t you look after me when I had a terrible dream? I want to be here for you now. Please.”

“It’s not paltry comfort – you know that. Stop fishing. I don’t like feeling… weak,” Hermione sullenly mumbles; but she condescends to laying her head back against his heart and tentatively wrapping her arms around his back.

 _Curmudgeonly little witch_. Draco folds in his smile and waits for her to continue her narrative.

“Malfoy – I’m going to assume you have a better than working knowledge of Muggle modern history? Yes, you’re highly intelligent and well-read – of course you do,” Hermione answers her own query.

“So… I did a project at primary school, about nuclear tensions between the USSR and the USA in the mid-80s… I was a shade too young to take it in at the time, but I absorbed enough that it fascinated and terrified me,” Hermione divulges. “Oh– projects, they are kind of like an early essay–”

“I get it, Granger. Research and presentation, correct?” Draco risks the interruption.

“Right. Well, _excuse me_ for not being aware of the extent of your expertise on Muggle schooling practices,” she gripes. “Are you done butting in, Lord Malfoy?”.

“That’s Lord Culpepper to you, Elspeth,” Draco flippantly retorts, delighted that Hermione’s dry snark is returning. “My apologies: please, carry on.”

“I’m walking up a steep country hill, on a beautiful summer’s day… the sun is shining, the air crisp and clean… like something out of a Disney film,” Hermione slowly describes. “When I turn to look back down the hill – I see a distant cityscape. A terrible stillness descends… the birds and wild creatures burst from their perches and burrows in an explosion of blurred motion. Then… comes the atrocious flash, the billowing mushroom cloud, the roiling, unimaginable heat surrounds me… and I am immolated where I stand, screaming as my flesh peels and disintegrates.”

At Draco’s horrified gasp, Hermione straightens and dejectedly sighs, “Sorry – fun talk, huh?”.

“Hermione – I am so sorry. We can stop, if this is upsetting you too much–” Draco forces himself to relax his fierce embrace before he squeezes the breath from Hermione’s lungs.

“No. I want to finish it,” his stubborn lover announces, brows drawing together in an obdurate frown as she peers up at him. “You did insist, _mon_ _cœur_ ,” she reminds.

Draco bestows a quick smooch on her grumpy mouth before he nods in resignation. “Go on.”

“Tonight, it started just the same – the dream – but when I turned at the top of the rise, you were beside me, holding my hand… Our eyes met, and we both knew what the scorching flashbang and the toadstool fallout meant– and –” Hermione’s voice crumbles and fat new tears well in her distressed eyes.

“And you held me tight, you opened your mouth to say something, but it was too late, Draco – you were incinerated right in front of my eyes like a leaf in a bonfire – I can’t, I can’t stop seeing you d-d-die…” Hermione weeps piteously, her pain making Draco’s heart stutter and stall.

“Shhhh, _ma petite_ , hush now, it was just a dream – I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? Remember what I said to you, that first morning in the kitchen? ‘You’re stuck with me now’, Granger,” he supplies, rocking her tenderly. “Nothing is going to happen to me – you know I’m far too crafty (and committed to saving my own fair skin) to let anyone get the drop on me, OK?”. Draco declares the last in a tone that brooks no argument.

“You promise?” Hermione raises her tear-swollen visage, desperately searching out his sincerity.

“I promise,” Draco swears. “I didn’t pine for you for years to lose you now.”

Despite his flushed expression and flaming ear tips, Draco is pleased his diversion tactics have succeeded.

“Years? Truly?” Hermione asks in awe, and some lingering dubiousness.

“Truly.” Kissing closed her eyelids, Draco hedges, “That is a tale for another night, perhaps. Can I get you some water?”.

“Not just yet. Will you tell me something else happy, Malfoy? Please?” the woebegone witch petitions.

“What, my unrequited yearning gladdens your heart? Charming,” Draco pretends to grouse. Hermione responds by sneaking her hand lower to lightly pinch his right bum cheek.

“Ow! Alright,” he capitulates, as she giggles. “Let’s see… it’s Macdolas’s birthday in a few weeks: April 4, to be exact. I’d like to host a party for him, maybe at the Manor? Invite all the Malfoy house elves, of course: plus Hagrid, Luna, Pansy; Blaise and Theo… and Potter. Though I categorically forbid any more worshipful Lightning Bolt costumes. Banned, absolutely banned,” he stipulates with a wry twist of his mouth.

“Ooh – can we make it a surprise party? I bet he’s never had a surprise party!” Hermione exclaims, swiping away the last moisture from her gorgeous eyes as she starts to plot.

“Granger… he’s never had any party. Surprise or otherwise,” Draco points out, hoping his next words don’t plummet her into the doldrums once more. “He applied for the job at the Manor because that harridan Lady Mac Fhionnlaigh refused to employ him once house elf emancipation became law. She claimed she couldn’t support his mother _and_ him… Rotten old bitch,” he mutters the last.

“He had to leave his mother behind? But… but that’s heartrending, and horribly unkind,” Hermione angrily notes. “What of his father? Or siblings?”.

“I believe his father died suddenly when he was very young; and he has no siblings. House elves were only allowed to breed with their master’s permission, and infrequently… usually when another was deemed too old to serve and a replacement required.” Draco winces as he reveals the unpalatable history of house elf enslavement.

“I’m sorry – I never gave much thought to how we treated our elves, not until Dobby…” he lapses into an uncomfortable pause. “I’m sorry, Granger.”

“I know. Dobby was very special to me… to us. I miss him so,” Hermione wipes at her eyes again, before a familiar expression of canny determination settles upon her face. “We’re going to throw Mac an amazing birthday party – oh, let’s make it a costume party! Everyone has to come in costume – what should the theme be? Or is costume enough of a theme by itself?”.

She bounces a little in his naked lap and narrowly misses squashing one of Draco’s more vulnerable body parts. He protectively slides down a hand to cup himself as he weakly objects, “Must we? Shouldn’t the focus be on Macdolas’s crazy attire?”.

“No – he’ll love it, you’ll see. And we can have party games, and his favourite foods–”

“–That would be all of them, then,” Draco interjects.

“Pass-the-parcel, Pin the Tail on the Donkey – we’ll change that to Hippogriff, you can draw a big one on a sheet of cardboard, please… what else? You’ll have to tell me of some Wizardly games.” Hermione taps her lips in contemplation.

Struck by the tempting idea of drawing a large roan donkey sporting the Weasel’s grinning mug, Draco redirects his attention to the conversational thread.

“Not to rain on your parade, _ma petite_ – but aren’t those for children? I don’t wish to infantilize Macdolas, you know. He’s turning thirty this year, which – in comparison with wizards – is roughly equivalent to–”

“Eighteen. Don’t look affronted, you interrupted _me_ before. So Mac was, what? ‘Sixteen’ when you first hired him? Isn’t that awfully early to be co-managing a household?”. Hermione cocks her head like a curious brown sparrow.

“Yes. He really was a shade too young, but he was extremely confident… and potential elfish employees weren’t exactly lining up to work at the notorious Malfoy Manor,” Draco admits. “I asked Macdolas in our interview about his career goals, and he confessed he’d dreamed of being apprenticed at Hogwarts… but he needed to make more money to send home to his mother.”

“You felt sorry for him. And I bet you doubled his salary on the spot,” she shrewdly guesses. “Is there a chance Mac’s mother might relocate to live with him? At the Manor?”.

Shrugging, Draco explains, “Not at this time: apparently she remains strongly attached to their ancestral household. Macdolas returns every year to visit, during his annual leave… and he sends her half his income, without fail. Lady Fhionnlaigh refuses to pay above minimum wage, and his mother needs to purchase medicinal potions for chronic joint and muscular pain. We provide all medical care as part of our basic job package.”

“As you should,” Hermione sniffs. “Do you think we’ll be able to keep the party a surprise? What will Lucy say about it?” she grins.

“Oh, he might bluster discontentedly for form’s sake – but he’ll doubtless be glad to see Mother happy… I assume you’ll second her assistance? I have to say, I don’t understand this odd Muggle custom of going to the effort of a surprise party merely to leap out en masse and scare some poor creature half to death,” Draco dryly observes.

“Spoilsport. It’s _fun_ , that’s why. Yes, I will convene with Narcissa as soon as possible and brainstorm our ideas.” Hermione’s excitement is palpable.

 _Thank goodness it’s taken her troubled mind off that appalling nightmare_. Draco cannot resist pecking a kiss to her thought-wrinkled brow.

Hermione smiles at him ingenuously. “What was that for?”.

“I had to pay homage to how adorable you are, Granger. One kiss at a time.” _For the rest of my life. I hope._

She winds her arms back around him, snuggling gently. “You say the sweetest things, my silver-tongued Snake. You’re quite the closet sweetheart, you know.”

“Don’t go repeating that outside of this bedroom – you’ll ruin my rakish reputation in a flash,” Draco teases. He shuffles them back to a horizontal position, tucking his beautiful witch into his side as she latches her arms and legs around him like a koala joey.

“Let’s try to get some more sleep before your alarm shrills, hmmm?” Draco rhythmically pets her beautiful unbound caramel tresses, even as Hermione drowsily shakes her head in negation.

“I want to talk about Mac’s party – and what shall we gift him? Should we make it an inside or outside event? They both have their advantages, and drawbacks…” her words begin to slur.

Continuing to soothe his hand along her hair, Draco is amused when she suddenly articulates, “Scavenger Hunt!”… and immediately produces a whistling snore.

_Fait de beaux rêves, mon amour._

* * *

The thick raindrops steadily splatting against the kitchen windows match their pensive moods, Draco reflects. Despite them both managing a few more hours of slumber after Hermione’s abominable nightmare, the atmosphere in the townhouse this morning is markedly sombre.

He sips at his redolent coffee, trying to study Hermione without being conspicuous. She is currently employed in spreading butter to some pre-ordained degree of perfect thickness and evenness on her wholemeal toast… but seems to lack a desire to actually ingest it.

“Stop staring at me, Malfoy – you’re about as subtle as a brick through a window.”

 _Well. That’s telling me._ He hides his wry pout in his plain white mug of java.

Hermione restlessly reaches for the jam jar, but Macdolas is quicker: the industrious sprite pauses in his fiddling at the radio station tuning knob to float the jar of strawberry conserves into her hand.

“Her Grace Lady Granger is sad? Macdolas offers his assistance with that which ails her?” he anxiously wrings his hands together, having clearly picked up on Hermione’s sustained melancholy.

“I could use a hug,” Hermione swivels on her stool, slipping down to kneel as Mac bounds into her embrace. “Thank you, Mac.” His rough brown woollen replica Franciscan monk’s robes ride up, revealing his leather sandals and large, nodular feet; the elf fastidiously tugs down the gown as Hermione maintains the affectionate clinch.

“Macdolas asks if Her Grace would not be happier to stay at home today and let the other Ministry drones buzz about the hive? We watch cartoons and drink hot chocolate?” he suggests.

“’Ministry drones’ – you got that from Draco, didn’t you?” Hermione turns a scolding frown onto her blond lover, who swiftly changes the subject.

“I already floated that idea, Macdolas – and was summarily shut down. Mayhap you’ll have more success,” Draco comments. “ _Ma petite_ , this is the perfect day to skive off for once… cuddling up with me on the couch, reading or watching television, listening to music, eating junk food… Come, doesn’t that sound infinitely preferable to sneezing over some dusty old files and getting a stiff neck from your rickety office chair?” Draco wheedles.

Hermione smooths down Mac’s rumpled reddish hair before perching on her stool once more. “Are you implying that my work is little more than pointless drudgery? How wonderfully supportive of you, Malfoy,” she crossly accuses.

 _Oops. Poor tactics, given Hermione’s currently perturbed emotional condition._ Draco hastily stumbles to mend the damage his ill-considered words have caused. “Of course not – you are the brightest and best lawyer in the history of the Ministry, and I am your greatest advocate, Granger. I simply meant–”

“I’ll thank you not to undermine how important my career is to me. Excuse me, I need to collect my wristwatch before we leave.” Averting her face, Hermione abandons her plate of mostly untouched toast and half-drunk coffee, placing them beside the sink before she jerkily walks from the room.

Draco sorrowfully watches her leave, sensing his major-domo’s intent eyes upon him. He snaps at Macdolas, “Don’t be giving me that pitying look, champ! Hermione is having a tough day, that’s all. It happens to everyone.”

“Master Malfoy means well, but thoughtlessly aggrieves Her Grace when he urges her to stay home today,” Macdolas decrees, nodding sagely.

“Kind of you to point out the error of my ways, Friar Tuck,” Draco huffs. “What’s with today’s get-up, anyway?” he motions to the voluminous seal-brown hooded habit.

“Macdolas reads ‘The Name of the Rose’ by Umberto Eco; Her Grace Lady Granger promises Macdolas to procure the film from the Montevideo store,” he proudly communicates.

“’Video’ store,” Draco absently corrects, pushing away his own dish and mug. “Be mindful of how much time you’re spending glued to that TV screen: Muggles have a warning about developing ‘square eyes’, you know.”

Elongated fingers worriedly tracing the shape of his occipitals, Macdolas scowls when he notices Draco’s minute smirk. “Master believes he is funny, but Macdolas knows better,” he snipes.

Draco’s intended reproof is scuppered when Hermione flies back into the room. He stands up off the stool just before she cannons into him and nearly knocks him sideways into the granite-topped kitchen island.

“I’m sorry I was scratchy and hostile before, Malfoy – please, forgive me?” she entreats, tentatively linking her hands behind his neck and gnawing nervously at her full bottom lip. “You’re the last person in the world I wish to antagonize… I apologize.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Granger. I understand. I did not mean to downplay the importance of your career – nothing could be further from the truth. I am proud as punch of my supremely intelligent, gifted witch,” Draco smiles down gratefully into her uneasy brandy eyes. “I apologize for my clumsy attempts to coerce you into spending the day with me; my selfish desire to spend more time in your company got the better of my good sense.”

Hermione blushes at the compliment, shaking her head in demurral. “I think burying myself in work today is the best cure for my grumps… but could we do something special together tonight? No, not _that_ kind of special,” she amends, slapping rebukingly at his chest as Draco waggles his eyebrows provocatively and Macdolas quietly snorts behind them.

“I brought over my VHS copy of the movie ‘Titanic’ – have you seen it? No? Good. It’s always better on the big screen, of course, but the TV will suit my purposes well enough.” She leans in to whisper in Draco’s ear: “There is a certain… artistic… scene between the protagonists that I believe might inspire one of our own, _mon_ _cœur._ ” She nibbles at his ear lobe for extra effect; Draco sucks in a sharp breath at the delicious sensation.

Raising her voice again, Hermione continues, “Let’s have an early supper, and watch it together tonight – Mac, why don’t you ask Ruibby to join us? I think she’ll enjoy the film, too.”

 _Hold up – double-dating with our house elves?!?_ Draco bites his tongue as Hermione quells his instinctive rejection of the proposition with a single meaningful look. “Great,” he mutters, as Macdolas’s ears twitch in keenness.

“Her Grace is too kind! Macdolas begs leave to spend one minute inviting Ruibby to this evening’s exemplary plans?”. At Hermione’s quick nod, he Apparates on the spot.

“Did you really have to ask that little horndog along, Granger? Don’t we spend enough time in his company? You know they’ll start pawing at one another at some point,” he pettishly complains.

“Well, would you rather they booked a time to watch it here themselves… unchaperoned?” Hermione swiftly counters. “The movie runs for three and a half hours – imagine what could happen on your couch over that period of time.”

 _Godric’s gonads._ “I beg you to please desist,” Draco groans. “Wednesday night is already looming. I hope I’m not asked for another sex ed tutorial before then.”

“I have another suggestion for you, my talented, sexy wizard,” Hermione beams at him.

“I think you should publish ‘Your Guide to Elven Sexuality’: it’s meticulously researched, written, and illustrated, and there is a real market for it in this brave new world of house elves struggling to reconfigure their identities along with their freedoms. Perhaps you could add a short treatise on their long-withheld rights to bodily autonomy and elective fertility? Either way, you’ve done a fantastic job with it and it deserves to be shared with the entire Wizarding community,” she avows.

Chuckling indulgently, Draco immediately dismisses the idea. “No – it’s just a silly concept I noodled around with. I wanted it to be accurate and useful for Macdolas’s sake, of course… but it’s not worthy of publication.”

Stamping her foot, Hermione challenges, “So you didn’t do your best? Near enough was good enough for Mac, huh?”.

“No – of course not! I spent hours making sure I had my facts straight and that the drawings were realistic–” Draco is stung, until he realizes Hermione’s true intent. “Very clever, _ma petite_. However, reverse psychology is not nearly as effective on me as it is on _you_.”

Regrouping, Hermione tries again. “Consider this, then: you publish the book under your full name and title… and gift a copy to Lucy for Christmas.” Her wicked grin is infectious.

“Now you’re talking,” Draco concedes as they laugh together. Finally, the gloominess that has dogged their interactions since they awoke is starting to disperse. “I’ll think on it.”

Macdolas Apparates back into the kitchen, hopping from foot-to-foot as he whoops, “Ruibby consents to attend the screening of The Unsinkable Ship! How Macdolas wishes this day would fly past with the speed of a Peruvian Vipertooth!” he pronounces.

 _You and me both, rascal_. Sensing Hermione beginning to withdraw from his arms, Draco obstinately tightens his clasp.

“Malfoy – I have to leave for work, I’m already running a few minutes late,” Hermione laughingly protests. “You should get started on creating another painterly masterpiece for me to admire, too.”

“Alright. I’ll walk you to the Floo,” he reluctantly draws apart, tangling his fingers in her smaller ones as they pivot for the doorway. A muffled electronic trill gurgles from somewhere behind them. Hermione looks at the third drawer down in dismay; Macdolas bristles like an irate cat upon hearing the sound.

“Dammit, that’s my Nokia – I keep forgetting to retrieve it. It’s probably Dad, I said I’d call him about dinner tomorrow night… Malfoy, would you mind answering it for me, please? Tell him we’ll be there straight after I finish work? Thank you,” Hermione grins at Draco’s startled mien. “Don’t worry, he likes you now, remember?” she shamelessly cajoles.

“On one condition,” Draco sternly advises. “A proper kiss before you leave. It’s a Granger-Malfoy Townhouse Rule.” He points to his mouth and tries to not crack a smile.

“Oh, if you insist,” Hermione’s pretended lack of enthusiasm is belied by her capable hands avidly winnowing through his hair as she plants her lips firmly on his parted mouth. Draco’s enjoyment of their feisty canoodle is only mildly diluted by the persistent tinny squeal of the mobile phone.

Tongues twining, Draco pours all his passion and tenderness into their kiss, as well as a healthy dollop of unbridled lust as his hands traverse Hermione’s lower back beneath her black blazer, dipping down to skate across her curvaceous bum in the fitted matching trousers. She moans into his mouth at the firming caress; they both ignore Macdolas’s exaggerated cough beside them.

“Duh-der-der-der, duh-der-der-der, duh-der-der-der-DER!”.

 _Pestilent bloody technology!_ Draco growls as the wretched phone keeps singing its annoying monophonic tune. Hermione sighs as she remarks, “Dad is going to keep calling until you pick up – he’s a bulldog sometimes. I’d better go, Malfoy. _Passe une bonne journée, mon chéri_."

She pats his chest; he picks up her hand to press a last kiss to her palm.

“You have a good day too, _ma petite_. Be safe.” Draco waits until Hermione and Macdolas have crossed the portal before snatching open the kitchen drawer and pressing the green call button.

“Mr Granger – sir. It’s Draco speaking, Hermione had to depart for the Ministry,” he cautiously introduces. The lengthy pause that follows is concerning.

“Little Wendy can’t abhor being late to anything – though she was born two weeks overdue, if you can believe it,” Bernard Granger chuckles. “Maybe that’s why she turns up to everything ridiculously early.”

“Ah, yes,” Draco hurries to concur. “Hermione asked me to let you know we’d be delighted to attend dinner with you tomorrow night, as soon as she finishes work. Assuming the invitation still stands, of course. Sir.”

“Leave it out, boy – we’re past our initial argy-bargy. One ‘sir’ per conversation is plenty,” Bernard snickers. “Wait until you experience Barney Granger’s Peri-Peri Pyrotechnics, eh? I reckon you’re a bit of a chilli lover like myself, right?” he confidently predicts.

“Erm–” Draco stammers. Visions of his mouth catching fire and his eyes bulging from a deliberate chilli overdose storm through his head. _Hermione wouldn’t allow her father to actually **poison** me, would she? No. Definitely not._

“Excellent! We’ll see you after five, then. Listen, Draco – you needn’t worry we’ll place any temptation in your way… you know, grog-wise, I mean. We’ll be serving plain tap water as well as that fancy sparkly shi–stuff, plus juice and sodas. Jane and I have never been big drinkers, anyway. I mean, we did get halfway sloshed that night in the Cortina–”

“Thank you very much, Mr Granger. I appreciate your consideration greatly.” Draco adroitly heads off a further exposition on _that_ subject. “Water is fine – sparkling or plain.”

“Water it is. Now, be sure to bring your appetites, and that cheeky little Mac,” Bernard instructs.

“I’m afraid he has a… [ _date? rendezvous? assignation?_ ] prior engagement with his lady friend. But he sends his regrets,” Draco tactfully answers.

“Good for him! You can tell me all about it over the barbecue.”

_I’d really rather not._

Before Draco can fashion an appropriate reply, Bernard booms, “Oh, and bring your good sketch pad and ink pens, Draco – Hermione said you’d love to draw a caricature of me tomorrow night, I’ve got a bit of one-upmanship going with my buddy Richard, he had one done recently – I’ll give the street artist fair credit for toning down that huge beak in the middle of his face, but the rest of the thing’s pretty trite.’

“I know you can do a far better job – I can’t wait to see the crestfallen expression on Dick’s noggin when I show him what our Hermione’s boyfriend is capable of! Ha! Bye!” Bernard rings off as Draco gapes at the now-stilled silver device in his hand.

 _Dragon’s balls, Granger – what have you dropped me into now?_ Draco catches sight of his befuddled countenance in the rain-darkened kitchen windows and resolves to spend a portion of his working day brushing up on his caricature-sketching skills.

_At least Bernard Granger seems to have warmed up to me slightly… assuming I survive tomorrow night’s dinner without requiring hospitalization. And he did refer to me as ‘Hermione’s boyfriend’, right? I’d best ensure my caricature is the best one I’ve ever drawn._

_And I’ll slip a flask of capsaicin-alleviating cold milk into my pocket – just in case._

* * *

_Tuesday 18 March 2003: PM_

“Give it over, Granger – you’re hogging the popcorn again,” Draco whispers, sniggering as Hermione’s grip tightens on the large glass bowl of fluffy, heavily buttered, white popped corn kernels.

“I am not! You’ve been scooping your big mitts in there far more than I have,” she hisses in reply. “The rest is mine, pal.”

“Fine,” he shrugs, knowing she will feel the slight movement as her back is pressed flush against his front as they snuggle on the blue sofa, Hermione’s legs between his own. “I’ll commandeer Macdolas and Ruibby’s bowl, instead – they seem to have lost interest in it.”

With the tip of his bare toes, Draco prods the newly installed china-blue beanbag upon which the two elves are curled up together. His movement succeeds in (briefly) separating the fae lovers: Macdolas glares as he resettles beside his blonde sweetheart.

“Leave them – they’re not doing anything _you’re_ not doing,” Hermione argues.

“Yeah – but they don’t have to watch _us_.” Draco pulls a face as he notices Macdolas’s hand creeping back around Ruibby’s shoulder as they cuddle in front of the boxy television set.

“Be quiet, please: the scene I want you to take especial note of is up next.” Digging him lightly in the ribs, Hermione kisses his salty lips before returning her attention to ‘Titanic’.

Five minutes later, Draco attempts to inconspicuously adjust the uncomfortable bulge in his trousers with some surreptitious (but mostly ineffectual) wriggling.

“Do you understand now why I insisted we watch this?” Hermione’s knowing look tells Draco he has not fooled her in the slightest. “And Jack Dawson is a total blond hottie – just like you,” she breathes, licking her lips. The tiny flicker of her pink tongue does not help Draco’s hardness to dissolve… quite the opposite.

“Indeed.” _For the love of serpents – how much more of this film is yet to roll? They haven’t even hit the iceberg yet!_ Draco seriously contemplates wandlessly faking a power outage with a few sly wordless spells.

A disembodied head emerging from the Floo fireplace scatters his sneaky thoughts. Hermione gasps, Macdolas bolts off the misshapen corduroy monstrosity, and Ruibby shrieks.

Blaise Zabini’s disturbed face meets Draco’s surprised gaze. “I’m sorry to disturb you – but this can’t wait.”

Hermione stands up, heedless of the bowl of popcorn tumbling to its side and spilling kernels onto the lowline couch. Draco rises behind her, trepidation growing even before Blaise reveals the purpose of his Floo call.

Blaise’s dark chocolate eyes are wild as he hoarsely explains:

“It’s Theo – Potter’s Auror Team just raided Nott House on an anonymous tip, Draco. They claim to have found The Manifesto hidden in his attic – they’ve bloody arrested him on suspicion of concocting and administering illegal potions, attempted kidnapping, and intent to commit sexual assault. He’s been chucked in a Ministry holding cell until they can rouse a judge to sign off on administering Veritaserum.”

Choking out jagged breaths, Blaise pleads, “Please, Draco – you have to help me. Theo didn’t do this – he couldn’t have! And you _know_ what being shoved into a small space is going to do to him.”

“Please.”

* * *

**French translations:**

_ma pauvre lionne triste_ – my poor, sad lioness.

 _Fait de beaux rêves, mon amour_ – Sleep well, my funny little love.

 _Passe une bonne journée, mon chéri_ – Have a good day, darling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all for your continued readership and support, and wonderful comments.  
> xoxo VJ.


	50. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys.  
> Thank you all very much for your supportive comments on the last chapter.  
> I appreciate each and every kudos, and positive comments you are kind enough to take the trouble to write, and I absolutely LOVE reading them.  
> I hope you like this update, I really enjoyed writing it... apologies in advance for introducing more characters 😁  
> Best wishes for all your health and happiness.  
> xoxo VJ

****

****Trigger warning: descriptions of claustrophobia****

_Tuesday 18 March 2003: PM_

“Mac – you and Ruibby stay here. Finish watching the movie and see Ruibby safely home, please. We’ll call you if we need you.” Hermione’s authoritative voice rings in Draco’s ears before he has a chance to assemble his own wits.

Both elves nod, exophthalmic eyes round as they watch the humans interact with as much rapt attention as they’d previously paid to the screening movie. Macdolas sits back down on the beanbag, gathering Ruibby into his arms and setting her before him in an uncanny replication of Draco’s recent posture while cuddling with Hermione.

_That’s not cute – that’s a blatant rip-off of my moves. Pilfering little shit._ Draco isn’t given much time to dwell on his gripe.

Checking her wand is secure in her jeans pocket, Hermione grabs the sorrel merino wool sweater Draco gifted her and quickly shoves her arms and head through the appropriate holes, before thrusting her bare feet into her trusty black flats.

“Malfoy – get your skates on, you need shoes and a jumper, plus your wand. Blaise – where are you? In your Ministry office?” Hermione demands, using her fingers to comb and tie back her loose brown curls with one of the hair bands that seem to perpetually multiply in her pockets.

Blaise’s agitated head nods from the Floo. “I’m about to go down to the Temporary Detention Cells to check on Theo – he contacted me when they arrested him after the raid–”

“Good. Clear the Floo, we’re coming to you. Take a deep breath, Blaise. Theo will be free and cleared of all charges before dawn breaks – or my name’s not Hermione Jean Granger.”

Draco allows himself a transitory moment of proud appreciation for his girlfriend’s fierce confidence, unswerving determination, and unrivalled clear-headedness in a crisis. He hustles to don his shoes and socks as the object of his admiration turns her critical mocha eyes upon him and clicks her tongue.

“Curb your lollygagging, Malfoy – we have a selection of DMLE arses to kick. You can fuss at your pretty coiffure later,” Hermione alludes to his hasty effort to smooth down his disordered pale locks.

_Bossy verging on tyrannical – and I bloody love it._ Draco pinches green Floo powder between his fingers as he follows his take-charge sweetheart into the now-empty hearth.

“Blaise Zabini’s office!” he repeats the directive after Hermione has Floo’ed clear.

Zabini is pacing in a tight circle when Draco arrives. His oddly amalgamated clothing speaks to his overwrought state of mind: black Oxfords sans socks, dark green silk pyjama bottoms... and an unbuttoned finely-patterned houndstooth business jacket over his bare burnished chest. Draco exchanges a look of perturbation with Hermione at seeing their friend so discombobulated.

“Sit down, Blaise. Have a drink of water,” Hermione waves her wand to the half-full clear jug on the heavy wood desk, filling the tumbler beside it and sliding it to the centre of the work table. Blaise collapses into the chair and sips automatically. His large, elegant hand trembles as he puts down the glass receptacle.

“He’s – he’s got claustrophobia – Theo, I mean,” Zabini blurts. “Not that he’s ever come out and admitted it, but he’s my best mate – I figured out what was going on a while back.” He gulps down the rest of the water and reaches to refill the tumbler.

“I know, Blaise. We have to get him out of that cell,” Draco grips the handle of his wand, wondering what the minimum penalty is for lightly blasting moronic Aurors.

“Stand down, Prison Break. I’ve got this.” Hermione lightly places her hand on Draco’s arm to lower it, before twisting together their fingers. “Blaise, do you know where Harry is now?”.

“Potter was arguing with a couple of other Aurors down there – they were still bickering when I left to call you guys,” Blaise divulges. “There were a shitload of crimson robes getting in each other’s way. Can’t wait to see another Death Eater’s son go down in flames, as usual,” he sneers into the water glass.

“Put that aside. Blaise – are you capable of staying in the background and looking dour? If you’re too upset to control your emotions, it’s best if you stay here,” Hermione softly but firmly warns.

“I’ll be the epitome of calm, controlled fury,” Blaise vows, jerkily jumping to his feet.

“Do up your jacket first – you look a right berk,” Draco advises in fond exasperation. “I’ll make sure he toes the line, Granger.”

“Good. Let’s take the elevators, it will give us all some time to calm down and plot the best approach,” Hermione is already towing him toward the door.

_As if she didn’t settle on her plan of attack as soon as she decided we were coming here._ Draco lets his faint smile quirk as he beckons Zabini to follow with a sharp head tilt.

“Come on, mate. Granger has dragons to slay – we don’t want to miss this.”

* * *

“Auror Potter – I request a private word. Now,” Hermione lets the merest hint of anger infuse her emphatic request. She smiles humourlessly when Harry’s tousled head rapidly spins to pinpoint her position, his face paling. Breaking away from the group of three of his colleagues with whom he’d been heatedly debating, Harry bustles to her side. He ignores the silent flanking figures of Draco and Blaise.

“Hermione! You shouldn’t be here, love!”. Harry’s eyes are drawn and distressed.

“You shall address me as ‘Ms Granger’: I am here in my official capacity as Mr Nott’s legal counsel. Find somewhere for us to discuss the gross missteps your department has foolishly taken tonight, please.” Hermione glares at the noisy crowd milling outside the Temporary Holding Cells.

“’Legal counsel’?!? Come on – you’re currently employed by the Ministry! And it’s an undeniable conflict of interest for you to represent your accuser,” Harry groans.

“We’ll do this here, then. Let the record state that I did request a confidential meeting,” Hermione clips.

“I resigned from my position in the Wizengamot Administration Services division this morning; the two weeks’ mandatory notice is exempt depending on special circumstances eventuating. The signed letter is sitting atop Mrs Sandore’s desk, if you need to verify,” Hermione informs.

“Wait – you quit?” Harry breathes in shock.

“Given that you have not produced a shred of tangible evidence to categorically prove your specious case against Mr Nott, I am well within my rights to serve as his legal representative, provided no coercion has been applied by either party.’

“I–I don’t think–”

“Obviously,” Hermione dryly observes, maintaining her frosty manner despite the pang she feels at Harry’s crestfallen face. “Theo Nott has clearly been framed for these atrocities, and his Wizardly rights railroaded in favour of the DMLE fabricating some much-needed good press to bury their recent string of ineptitudes.”

“His Wizardly rights? Hermione, it’s standard procedure to bring in suspects for questioning, you know that,” Harry attempts to claw back some slipping ground.

“According to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Procedural Manual, Section 58, Subclause 14: ‘Any witch or wizard brought to the DMLE for questioning shall not be incarcerated in the Temporary Holding Cells, should that person display signs of physiological or psychological distress, or should the DMLE be made aware of pre-existing medical conditions that predispose that individual to suffering as a result of incarceration. Alternate arrangements will be made as a matter of greatest priority in those circumstances, ensuring that the witch or wizard’s physical and mental condition be kept at optimum levels of health and functionality.’” Hermione recites the block of text with nary a stumble, keeping her eyes trained keenly on Harry’s troubled jade orbs.

“Theo’s claustrophobic, Potter,” Draco quietly explains. “Putting him in that tiny metal box is pure torture.”

“Ah, _shit_.” Harry’s anguished whisper is quickly followed by a flurry of action from the black-haired Auror. He pivots, bellowing at the yabbering throng, “Everyone out! Immediately! Gilmont, Faulkner – I’m entrusting you with preparing and guarding the Duelling Area/Simulation Room. Make sure it is cleared of clutter, and open the windows. Pop a small desk and five comfortable chairs in there, and rustle up some chocolate and hot drinks – plenty of sugar, please. You have ten minutes. Go,” he commands.

The named male and female Auror partners nod their comprehension and agreement, their carmine robes swishing as they swiftly and gracefully depart to follow Harry’s orders. The rest of their workmates stare at Harry like vacuous sheep waiting to be shorn.

“I said GO! Don’t make me fucking Stun the lot of you!” Harry roars. “Most of you have already stepped well out of line tonight – it would be a bloody pleasure to make you spend a night back there to consider how your overeager sloppiness has potentially corrupted Operation Acromantula!” he jerks his thumb to the cells behind him, as the magical police finally scatter.

Harry waits until the long corridor beside the cells is cleared before he stands before the first bay and points his Auror badge at the keyhole in the middle of the solid metal door. “ _Alohomora Magicae Virtute Muneris_.”

The incantation immediately generates a series of clicks and grates as rods slide free and cogs gyrate to unlock the forbidding gate. Placing his hand on the handle, Harry holds off turning it to state, “I’m going to trust that you lot aren’t going to try anything daft, like grabbing Nott and trying to Apparate away with him – that won’t work in any case, this place is lousy with Anti-Apparation spells and any attempt to circumvent them will automatically result in a particularly nasty Splinching, alright? Do I have your word, or do I need to confiscate your wands?”.

Hermione speaks on behalf of her crew. “You have our word, Harry. Please – get Theo out of there.”

Harry nods grimly, carefully swinging open the door and muttering “ _Lumos_ ”: a series of harsh white lights snap to life above them. Unable to quash her involuntary gasp of despair, Hermione steps aside as Blaise and Draco rush in to help their friend.

Theo Nott is at the far corner of the stark, unfurnished cell, curled into an impossibly small ball with his arms wrapped around his head. He is rocking slightly, seemingly oblivious to their presence as he repeats a string of… German? numbers in a cracked, monotonous, run-together chant.

“– _null-ein-zwei-drei-vier-f_ _ünf-sechs-sieben-acht-neun-zehn-elf-zw_ _ölf_ –”

“Theo – mate, it’s Blaise, it’s alright, you’re gonna be alright…” Hermione blinks away stinging tears as she watches Zabini sink to the floor and wrap his smaller friend in the gentlest of hugs, crooning soft words of reassurance and comfort. Draco crouches beside the pair and rubs light circles on Theo’s shaking back.

“Fucking hell,” Harry mutters beside her, clawing at his hair in a familiar gesture of distress. “Hermione – I didn’t set up the bloody raid – I didn’t know anything about it until Faulkner clued me in. That nitwit Barry Bones intercepted the anonymous tip-off just after I left the office for the night–”

“Not a coincidence, I assume,” Hermione cynically notes.

“By the time I arrived at Nott House, Barry was holding The Manifesto over his head like Muhammad Ali with the heavyweight champion of the world belt – and his team of gung-ho clowns had already dragged in Theo and thrown him in here. I was trying to cut through some red tape when you turned up,” Harry grants his much-maligned hair a respite, instead waving about both arms in a gesture of pure frustration and ire.

“Harry – do you believe Theo is guilty? Do you really think him capable of these crimes?” Hermione urgently queries.

“Unofficially? No. Officially? I’m ninety-nine percent sure the poor bastard has been framed: but I _have_ to follow correct procedure – or risk Theo copping more of this prejudicial crap,” Harry growls. “Barry didn’t even want to apply for the Veritaserum – the dumb turd claimed all the evidence he needed was in his hands.”

“Barry Bones… he’s a distant relation of Amelia Bones, I take it?” Hermione muses, trying to place the other Auror.

“So distant as to be practically impossible to prove,” Harry sniffs. “He’s been trading on the slim connection ever since he turned up here like a bad Knut. He’s more likely to have descended from a family of grave robbers than share blood with the late, great, Amelia Bones.”

Theo’s agonized intonations have finally ceased; Hermione covertly dabs at her moist eyes as Draco and Blaise assist the lanky young man to stand up, supporting him with their strong arms firmly bolstering his thin shoulders.

“Come on, Hermione – let’s head to the back room. Gilmont and Faulkner should have it set up by now,” Harry waits for the Slytherin trio to move ahead of them, quietly directing them through the corridors until they come to the large room situated at the rear left corner of Level Two. The silent Aurors on either side of the open door engage in a quick exchange with Harry before regaining their posts.

Harry guides Theo to sit in the squashy armchair that has been plonked directly below the largest open window, displaying the muted streetlights below. The sound and smell of steady rain is welcome and refreshing, especially in comparison to the meanness of Theo’s recent temporary prison.

Blaise and Draco drop into the chairs beside their buddy, scooching them closer to form a protective bulwark. Hermione and Harry take the seats opposite; Hermione stifles her impulsive grin at Gilmont and Faulkner’s choice of ‘desk’ – it is simply a large coffee table, piled untidily with a selection of Honeydukes and Muggle chocolates and lollies, a kettle of hot water, mismatching mugs, and fixings for coffee and tea. A jug of tap water and some paper cups complete the impromptu repast.

Harry notices Hermione’s quizzical gaze and sheepishly explains, “They have access to my office cupboard – I have to keep it locked, Aurors are like ruddy vultures when it comes to snacks. Don’t judge me,” he grumbles.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hermione chuckles. She is gladdened to see Theo accepting a mug of steaming tea solicitously prepared by Blaise, and the Kit Kat fingers that Draco has unwrapped and snapped for him. Her blond boyfriend drops the tiniest of winks as he catches her eye… clearly his thoughts have strayed to the night she first introduced him to the delicious chocolate wafer treat.

_Now is not the time to relive your first [explosive] kiss; nor is it acceptable to start blushing. Don’t look directly at the sexy git – he wreaks havoc on your composure without even trying._ Hermione wrenches her attention back to Harry.

“Let’s all have a bite to eat and a drink before we start the discussion proper,” Harry amiably suggests. “Mr Nott – Theo – please accept my apologies on behalf of the DMLE for the indignities you’ve suffered tonight. Rest assured I will be submitting an official complaint and a request for a formal investigation first thing tomorrow morning,” he avers.

Theo dips his head in silent acknowledgment, sipping at his tea and dutifully swallowing small bites of Kit Kat. He doesn’t appear to be relishing either: but at least his colour has improved and the blind terror in his mossy green eyes has been replaced with a dull resignation.

The buttons on his dark grey cotton pyjama top are mis-fastened, and he is wearing slippers. _The jerks didn’t even let him get properly dressed. Barry Bones won’t see another month in the job, Hermione furiously promises._

“Are you planning on complaining about your own actions, Potter? Weren’t you the Auror steering this ship of fools until it wrecked?” Blaise snarls, sitting forward in his chair and irefully pointing at Harry with a half-unpeeled Mars bar.

“Harry’s team didn’t serve the warrant or instigate the raid, Blaise – it was Barry Bones’s unit. Hold off on your fury until after Harry has had a chance to speak, please,” Hermione cautions. The calm steel in her voice settles Blaise almost instantaneously; he contents himself with narrowing his eyes and chomping an over-large bite out of his chocolate bar… and promptly choking on it. Draco reaches behind Theo to soundly thwack Zabini on the back.

“Aargh–go easy– near knocked me into next week– no, not again!” Blaise scoots to the lip of the chair to evade Draco’s hovering hand, hurriedly sculling a cup of water to alleviate his coughing fit.

“Wouldn’t like to see you asphyxiate, pal,” Draco smirks. “Can’t deprive the world of ‘Blaise the Praised’ just yet.”

“Too right,” Zabini croaks. “But lay off the whacking – you’re stronger than I would have given you credit for, considering your general air of sallow infirmity.”

“Fu–”

“That’s enough banter,” Hermione decrees, before the conversation devolves to inventive cussing. “Harry, I think we’re set for food and drink: you may as well begin. Be aware I will stop this preliminary discussion at any time, should I believe you are encroaching on my client’s rights.”

“Understood. Mr Nott – are you willing to answer a few questions about your movements this evening, and the evidence discovered at your abode?” Harry petitions, green eyes meeting green.

“I am,” Theo’s voice is hoarse but steadfast.

Harry rests his hands on his knees as he leans forward. “The black leather-bound book known as The Manifesto that was located in the attic of Nott House tonight: were you aware of its presence in your home?”.

“No. I avoid the attic, my father–”. Theo breaks off, cradling his mug between trembling hands. “I do not have fond memories of the attic, and rarely venture within.”

“Who else has access to the property?” Harry presses.

“Just my house elf, Wireceaster. He lives in the East Wing. My Floo is open to a few friends… and the Ministry, obviously.” Theo’s mouth twists. “The list of friends is pitifully short – everyone in this room, Pansy Parkinson, and recently I’ve added Luna Lovegood. Oh, and my grandmother, of course.”

“Have you ever before seen The Manifesto?”.

Looking up at the matte grey ceiling, Theo slowly replies, “When I saw it tonight… I had a flashback to my childhood… My father had it in his study once, I peeped through the keyhole and saw him flipping through it, with Walden Macnair. I don’t know for certain if it was the same book – I scarpered before Father caught me sneaking a peek,” he shrugs.

“Has anything happened recently to indicate Nott House’s security may have been compromised? Any weakening of your spelled wards? Have you received any threatening correspondence, or felt as though you were being followed?” Harry asks.

“No, none of that.” Theo hunches as he admits, “It’s possible there’s been a breach I wasn’t aware of… some nights I have trouble sleeping, so I take Dreamless Sleep every now and then.” He intercepts the look that flashes between Harry and Hermione.

“I’m careful not to develop an addiction – shit, sorry, Draco–” Theo looks horrified at his slip of the tongue.

“No offence taken – go on, mate,” Draco assures.

Sucking in a deep inhale, Theo continues, “I was dog-tired tonight, but my head wouldn’t turn off, so I went to bed early and prepared a draught. I’d just taken a sip when my bedroom door flew open and I ended up getting hauled in here.”

“Arseholes,” Blaise grouches.

Ignoring the outburst, Harry postulates, “Could your house elf – Wireceaster – have recently found The Manifesto and placed it there for safekeeping? Or perhaps he has a grudge against you, and planted it there purposefully?”.

“It’s extremely unlikely, on both counts. Wirey used to work for my grandmother, and he’s fiercely loyal to her – and me. He insisted on coming back to live with me when I settled back in England full-time. I showed him the attic when he first arrived, and advised him to keep it locked and let it rot.” Theo restlessly shuffles his slippered feet. “Where is Wirey – is he OK? I didn’t see him downstairs when that pig-faced bloke slapped manacles on me and chucked me through the Floo.”

“I’m not sure,” Harry admits. “Let me check – I’ll be back in a tick.” The Auror hops up and confers with the female law enforcement officer; she departs shortly thereafter.

“Gilmont’s going to find out. Won’t take her long,” Harry reports.

Hermione decides it’s time to step in. “Where do we stand on the Veritaserum issue, Harry? Are you still pushing for Theo’s compulsory ingestion and interrogation?”.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Harry’s weariness and stress is apparent in his strained tones. “I don’t want to exacerbate Theo’s condition any more tonight – I was hoping that an official administration of the truth serum would categorically prove his innocence and lead to the dismissal of all charges, and his swift release. However–”

“I’ll do it,” Theo interjects, setting down his empty mug and staring intently at the conflicted Auror. “I have nothing to hide, and if it means getting out of this mess tonight – I’m in. Forget about needing the judge to sign off on it, alright?”.

Hermione double-checks with her client before she lends her support to the proposition. “Theo – are you wholly positive you are comfortable with this? You’ve already suffered a bad shock tonight, and I am perfectly willing to file injunction after injunction if taking the Veritaserum will worsen your condition,” she asserts.

“Thank you, Hermione: I’m OK, now. I want this over with.” Theo’s determination is unmistakable.

_I’m proud of you, Theo._ Hermione resolves to tell the man exactly that, before the night is over.

“Set it up, Harry. And ensure you fully record it, please. I don’t want any pushbacks about method irregularities or perceived bias,” Hermione enjoins, pulling fresh parchment and a biro out of her Extendable bag. “It’s faster to write notes with than a quill and ink,” she defends against Draco’s small smile.

“ _Ma petite_ , I would sooner question a hungry Manticore than find fault with your professional techniques,” Draco remarks. “May Blaise and I remain, or is it best if we absent ourselves from the formal examination process?” he addresses Harry.

Harry cocks his head to the side, considering the request. “You may stay – but only on the proviso that you practise absolute silence throughout. One word from either of you – and you’re out. Agreed?”.

“Agreed,” Blaise and Draco answer in unison.

Producing a small colourless vial of liquid from his top pocket, Harry holds the ampoule in one hand while he digs in his cherry-coloured robes for his adapted Muggle digital voice recorder. He thumbs the ‘on’ switch and places it in the centre of the coffee table, after using his wand to clear the food and drink away to the sides.

“Auror Harry Potter, badge number 1527, recording the voluntary administration of Veritaserum and accompanying formal interview with Mr Theodore Nott. Also present is his legal representative, Ms Hermione Granger, and Mr Nott’s nominated support persons of Mr Blaise Zabini and Lord Draco Malfoy. The date is Tuesday 18 March 2003, and the time is 9.42PM…”

* * *

“…Mr Nott, I hereby advise that you are cleared of all charges brought against you tonight with regard to the Operation Acromantula case; you are free to leave without further sanction or limitation,” Harry pronounces, scratching in his top pocket for another phial. “I would recommend waiting ten minutes before your departure, to allow the Veritaserum antidote to flush your system in full. Lean forward, please,” Harry unstoppers the new vial to place three precise droplets upon Theo’s tongue.

“Auror Potter: are you confident that Mr Nott was unable to resist or subvert the truth-revealing effects of Veritaserum by use of Occlumency or other means, magical or otherwise?” Hermione formally enquires.

“I am satisfied with the untampered veracity of Mr Nott’s responses, yes,” Harry swiftly concurs.

“I petition for a written copy of this interview to be provided to me no later than close of business tomorrow, please,” Hermione insists, carefully rolling up her closely-written sheafs of parchment and improvising their restraint with another ubiquitous hair tie.

Harry rolls his eyes and mumbles something mostly unintelligible beneath his breath… though it does sound suspiciously like “more bloody reports” to Hermione’s keen ears.

“Of course, Ms Granger,” is his official response. “Do you have any other questions?”

Hermione’s reply is lost as the sounds of a scuffle erupt at the door (Harry having decided to leave it open to offset any lingering effects of Theo’s claustrophobia).

“You’ve got no bloody right, Gilmont!” the discordant male screech has four of the five occupants of the makeshift inquiry room immediately abandoning their seats to stand, wands drawn and directed at the approaching source of the disturbance.

Gilmont crosses the portal, backing into the room while shielding a small elderly house elf (who sports a thick, elaborately twisted white moustache) behind her voluminous robes. Faulkner enters hot on her heels, his attention also centred on the unidentified shouting man.

A corpulent middle-aged wizard with a decidedly pig-snouted upturned nose appears in the doorway, sweat rings marring his crimson Auror robes. He fumbles his wand from one hand to the other, seemingly unable to effectively fix his perspiration-slickened grip.

“Potter! What’s the bloody meaning of this, then?!? That sodding elf is my material witness!” he shouts. “No one undermines Barry Bones and gets away with it! How very dare you interfere in my investigation! S’pose I shouldn’t expect any less, you’re forever hogging all the glory and trading off on your dubious reputation–”

**BANG!** An intense jet of red light fires from the tip of Gilmont’s wand, hitting the blustering Bones in the middle of his unfortunately-shaped schnoz. He topples to the floor like a sawn redwood: Gilmont magicks one of the armchair cushions across to soften his head’s impact on the hard tiles just before he lands.

“Oops,” the dishwater blonde laconically comments, fiddling at the tip of her maple wood caduceus. “Auror Potter – I’m afraid my wand has performed a sudden, unexpected misfire… it seems to have accidentally Stupefied Auror Bones,” she deadpans. Her honey brown eyes shimmer with a delightful mischief.

“What a shame – though accidents do happen, Gilmont. I recommend casting a few rebooting spells overnight, that should do the trick,” Harry’s reaction is equally droll. “In the meantime, might I prevail upon you and Faulkner to move Auror Bones into one of the Temporary Holding Cells? I fear he might need a more contained environment to recover from his mishap.”

“Certainly, Auror Potter. This is _Herr_ Wireceaster, by the way. He assures us he has not been injured or ill-treated in any way, though I believe he is exhausted from tonight’s happenings, and would benefit from some refreshments,” Gilmont nods to the coffee table, gently pushing the bemused-looking elf toward it.

Faulkner raises his own wand to levitate the unconscious Bones ahead of them, as he and Gilmont move to follow Harry’s orders. Gilmont gifts a lazy wink to the room at large before she departs.

“What a bloody goddess,” Blaise breathes, his awe at Gilmont’s bold manoeuvre lighting up his onyx eyes and widening his charismatic smile. “Wordless Stupefaction, no less! Where have you been hiding her, Harry? I think I’m in love!”.

“Zabini – Gus Gilmont would eat you for breakfast, and save your sorry bones for soup,” Harry snorts. “Don’t even think about it.”

“’Gus’? Her name’s Gus? Is that short for something? How long has she been working here? Why haven’t I met her before? She’s single, right? ‘Course she is, the universe couldn’t be so cruel! Have mercy, Potter! I think I’ll call her ‘Gussie’,” Blaise gleefully rubs together his hands anticipatorily.

Hermione, Harry, Draco and Theo break into spontaneous laughter, as Blaise pretends aggrievance, his hands on his hips and an exaggerated pout on his cheeky face.

_Such a jester,_ Hermione affectionately reflects. _Luckily, that’s just what we need right now._

Theo’s rusty laugh trickles away as he ushers his house elf into Blaise’s unoccupied seat. “Wirey – are you alright? Here, have a Chocolate Frog, I know they’re your favourites.”

Nibbling at the Frog with one hand, Wireceaster nervously twirls his waxed handlebar moustache with the other. “Master Nott is well? Wirey worries when he sees fat wizard accost Master,” he frets. “Wirey tells him over and over Master Nott never goes to attic! _Dummkopf_.” The elf’s German accent thickens as he spits the insult.

Harry sighs. “I’m very sorry, Mr Wireceaster. Auror Bones will be facing disciplinary action before the week is out.”

Wireceaster’s black eyes goggle as he seems to register Harry’s presence for the first time since being hustled into the room. “Master Auror Harry James Potter! _Der Junge der Lebte_! Brave _und_ selfless! _Potzblitze_!” he cries, sweeping into a stiff bow.

“Here we go again,” Draco grunts, moving to stand behind Hermione and loosely circle her with his arms. “Do you think this wildly misplaced hero-worship is coded into their elven DNA, Granger?” he nuzzles at her ear.

“Granger? _Fräulein_ Hermione Granger? _Die klügste Hexe der Welt?_ Such honour, such honour!” Wirey abandons Harry in favour of grabbing Hermione’s hand and smearing chocolatey kisses along the back of her knuckles. He entirely ignores Draco’s presence and petulant protest.

“Wirey just called you ‘the cleverest witch in the world’,” Theo helpfully translates. “He’s right about that… thank you, Hermione.” His dreamy dark green eyes have regained most of their usual lustre, and his relieved smile speaks volumes to his improved state of mind.

“You’re very welcome, Theo,” Hermione smiles back. “I’d give you a hug… but I seem to be inundated with male attention at present,” she laughs. Draco is yet to dislodge Wirey’s stubborn grasp on her hand, and is possessively hugging her even tighter.

“Listen, guys… your support– all your support, it means so much to me,” Theo rasps. “And not one of you – well, with the exception of Harry, and he was just doing his job – asked me if I was guilty of these horrible crimes… You came to my aid without any hesitation or conditions, and I-I want you to know how much I appreciate you… and that I count you as family. My family. Thank you.” He swallows hard.

“Brace yourself – that’s a hug-worthy statement if ever I heard one,” Blaise hurdles an armchair to crush Theo into a tight embrace. He knuckles his friend’s charcoal curls as he announces, “You and Wirey are coming back to my place, once you’re both up to the Floo journey. I’m in dire need of the company, to be honest – what a shitstorm this night turned into,” he sighs.

“Take this pesky geriatric elf with you before he Apparates away with my girlfriend,” Draco bitches. “What are you laughing at, Potter?”.

Harry’s chuckles soon bloom into infectious guffaws, causing the rest of the humans to follow suit.

Blaise eventually sidles up to Harry to win the last word.

“So… any chance I could bribe a certain Auror to put in a good word with Gussie for The Great Zabini?”.

* * *

**German translations:**

_Dummkopf_ – Idiot (literally ‘dumb head’).

_Der Junge der Lebte_ – The Boy who Lived.

_Potzblitze!_ – Oops, my God! (Lightning Bolts)

_Die klügste Hexe der Welt_ – The cleverest Witch in the World.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50 Chapters! I can hardly believe it.  
> 😊🥰😊


	51. Progression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @krankykittie for coming up with the idea for the Granger/Potter Elven Fan Club, and for graciously letting me 'borrow' it.  
> And I am itching to use @Asoreleks's related idea for the squabble that's bound to erupt at the first official meeting of that society...  
> Thank you very much @sweeteangel1 for fixing my French again! And for more beautiful French phrases.  
> The German in the last chapter was corrected by @Sahira - thank you, and hopefully I haven't stuffed up this update's Deutsch too badly.  
> Lastly, I am so grateful and thankful to @Recoveringjaddict5 for her patience as my constant beta reader. I hope you get well soon, my dear friend.
> 
> I hope you are all well and safe - thank you so much for reading.  
> xoxo VJ

__

_Tuesday 18 March 2003: PM_

“Theo – I’m so sorry about the ordeal you suffered tonight. I never for a moment believed you were involved with the roofie plot,” Hermione earnestly declares, hoping her statement doesn’t further upset the tired young man standing before her. Harry, Blaise, and Draco are talking animatedly on the other side of Blaise’s office, while Wirey remains stubbornly attached to her right hand (though he has finally ceased his ardent smooching of it).

“Thank you, Hermione – I don’t– I don’t know what I would have done, if you hadn’t showed up and saved the day,” Theo soberly admits. “I’m at a loss to express what your faith really means to me… and of course, I’ll pay you for your legal counsel–”

“Pshaw! Absolutely not,” Hermione scoffs. “I’m highly insulted you even offered,” she teases, using her free left hand to lightly squeeze Theo’s shoulder.

“Listen, Theo… I want you to know how proud I am of you: it took a lot of courage to face the Veritaserum interrogation, especially considering how you suffered after being shoved in that cell. ‘You’ve got moxie, kid’ – as my dad likes to say,” she grins.

Blushing a little, Theo drops his head to his chest and shyly looks up through his ruffled fringe of thick black curls. His Adam’s apple bobs as he smiles candidly for the first time tonight. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“May I give you a hug before you leave?” Hermione quietly requests. “Assuming Wirey lets go of my hand before the sun rises.” She gently attempts to shake loose the appendage for the fifth or sixth time.

“Of course. Wirey – please let go of Hermione, before her cranky boyfriend zaps you,” Theo instructs, nodding toward Draco; the haughty blond is craning his neck to glare inimically at the moustachioed house elf. Pouting, Wireceaster rubs his rubbery cheek against the back of Hermione’s fingers before reluctantly releasing her.

“ _Fräulein_ Granger holds Wireceaster’s throbbing heart in her hands forevermore: such beauty, such grace… _Solch Körper - und Geisteskraft!_ Wireceaster composes poems for _die schönste aller Hexen_ – he recites at next meeting!” the infatuated sprite fervently promises, clasping together his knobbed elfish mitts and wiggling his prodigious ears for dramatic emphasis.

“Er – lovely.” Hermione discreetly wipes the dampened back of her hand on the rear pocket of her jeans before gathering Theo in a careful hug. He holds the embrace for a few seconds, pulling away as he says, “We’d better go, before Draco completely loses his tenuous grasp on his rampant possessiveness… he’s practically frothing at the mouth over there.”

“Is that the polite version of, ‘before Draco loses his shit’?” Hermione wryly murmurs.

“You said it, not me,” Theo chuckles. He steps back, placing a guiding hand on Wirey’s thick plaid old-fashioned nightshirt. Hermione idly wonders if the funny little elf has a matching nightcap that was lost in his haste to defend his master tonight.

“Come on, Wirey – bid goodnight to Hermione, and let’s be on our way,” Theo prompts.

Hermione prudently keeps her hands tucked behind her back as Wireceaster gushes, “ _Gute Nacht, meine Göttin_. Wireceaster counts _die Minuten_ til we meets again.” Hermione thinks she hears his knees creak as he wobbles into the start of a deep bow: Theo cancels the gesture with a gentle yank to the elf’s nightshirt.

“Blaise, we’re ready to leave, mate,” Theo calls to his friend, herding Wirey toward the fireplace. “Thanks again, Draco, Harry. ‘Night.”

Blaise busses a quick kiss to Hermione’s cheek before he hurries to the other side of the senior house elf. “Harry – you’ll lock the office behind you, please? Can’t be too careful – as tonight has proven,” Zabini grimly observes.

Harry gives a Muggle ‘thumbs-up’ gesture as Draco nods goodbye. A flash of green light signals the trio’s Floo exit.

Draco crosses to Hermione, enveloping her in a delectably tight hug and peppering a series of sweet kisses to her frazzled hair before he speaks. “ _Ma petite_ – you are utterly incredible, do you know that? Are you positive you wish to resign from the Ministry? Based on tonight’s performance, you would easily be the greatest Minister for Magic the Wizarding World has ever seen,” he professes, unmistakable sincerity infusing his statement.

Flushing with quiet happiness at her boyfriend’s compliment, Hermione smiles. “Thank you, Malfoy: but if tonight’s shenanigans are any indicator, I’d be drowning in nincompoops and corrupt officialdom at every turn. And I really don’t suffer fools gladly… or at all.”

Turning her head sideways to address Harry, Hermione keeps her arms snugged around Draco as she straightforwardly points out, “Harry – you’ve got a mole in the Auror division; and no prizes for guessing his identity.”

“Bones,” Harry acknowledges, his mouth a harsh slash in his tired face. “Or if not Barry – someone in his team. There’s no way they didn’t intend to frame Theo and hang him out to dry,” he growls. “Which begs the question – just how dark and deep _is_ this conspiracy? I’ve been operating under the assumption it’s a couple of depraved enthusiasts… but what if it’s a whole underground network? Embedded in the Ministry, no less?! And as for the evidence–” he breaks off to scratch at his ears.

 _At least his poor hair has a small reprieve,_ Hermione thinks sadly. Watching her best friend agonize over his perceived failings makes her heart ache and her eyes well. She is surprised when Draco steps in.

“Potter – don’t go flagellating yourself over this development. You were doing everything you legally could to sort out tonight’s shambles, and you wasted no time rectifying the injustice done to Theo when you learned of his disorder. At least now you know which rocks to look beneath,” Draco urges. He grins at Hermione’s agape reaction.

“What? I give credit where it’s due, you know,” Draco defends his unexpected magnanimity.

“Of course you do,” Hermione placates, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Draco’s correct, Harry. You’re not responsible for the actions of your colleagues,” she stresses.

“Thanks, guys.” Harry’s shoulders slump defeatedly as he advises, “I’m going to call an emergency meeting here tonight with Head Auror Leopold Pritchard-Hawes and go through every shred of evidence and all the reports for Operation Acromantula. And we’ve yet to comb The Manifesto for clues – at least it’s been safely deposited in the evidence locker, Faulkner confirmed that before he left.”

“Harry – you look absolutely exhausted. Can’t you catch a few hours’ sleep first?” Hermione entreats.

“I’m alright, love. We need to get on top of this, and potentially charge Barry with collusion, or intentional hindering of the investigation. He’ll definitely be held to account over his illegal treatment of a suspect in custody – the prick deliberately turned off the lights in Theo’s holding cell! He’ll bloody pay for his cruelties.” Steel returns to Harry’s spine as he stalks to Blaise’s desk and scribbles down a note on a spare leaf of parchment.

“Go home, you two. Quick – before you start pawing at each other and I am forced to throw you out,” Harry jokes. “Leave the sad bachelor to his one true love – his work.”

“I think a certain beautiful brunette witch named for a pretty flower might have some beef with your last statement, Harry,” Hermione cheekily ripostes. Draco’s chest vibrates with his own chortles as Harry reddens and fumbles unnecessarily at his perfectly-positioned spectacles.

Hermione leans over Zabini’s desk, grabbing a scrap of vellum and a pencil to scrawl down a hasty note of her own. “I’ll magick this down to Mrs Sandore’s office before we leave. I’ve decided to take tomorrow morning off work,” she explains. “But I’ll be in around noon, Harry – and I’d like a full briefing then, if you’ve time, of course.” She sends the folded note on its way to Level Two with a graceful flick of her wand and a brief incantation.

“ _We’ll_ be in then,” Draco amends. “Don’t pout, Granger – you owe me for not warning me about your mad– erm, madcap father’s demand that I draw his caricature after our barbecue dinner tomorrow evening.”

“First family dinner with the Grangers, eh?” Harry brightens, rubbing together his hands in gleeful anticipation. “Barney’s going to have a field day grilling _you_ over the barbecue, Malfoy… no one’s good enough for his Little Wendy, of course,” he sniggers.

“What – not even the Weas–Weasley?” Draco curiously enquires.

“Oh, hell no – Barney was suss on Ron for–”

“Harry! That’s enough!” Hermione hisses, appalled at Harry’s sudden overshare.

“Sorry, Hermione. Good luck, Malfoy.” Harry appears shamefaced. Draco looks insufferably smug about the interrupted revelation.

“Malfoy – take me home to bed, or lose me forever,” she paraphrases the line of dialogue from ‘Top Gun’ as she shuffles them toward Blaise’s Floo.

“Eeww, gross,” Harry groans, as he returns Hermione’s wave and Draco’s chin tip.

“And from one of my favourite movies, too,” the Auror grumbles, as the couple toss in their green powder and disappear from sight.

“Blasphemy.”

* * *

_Wednesday 19 March 2003: AM_

Careful not to spill a drop, Draco wafts the mug of steaming coffee beneath his sleeping sweetheart’s nose. He grins as her nostrils twitch while she snuffles, “Mmphff… whaaaa?”.

Perching on the side of the mattress beside her askew form, Draco pretends to take a sip from the white mug as Hermione’s eyes snap open and narrow, lasering in on his mouth at the lip of the cup.

“Mine!” she jack-knifes upright, grabby hands flailing for the hot java.

Laughing outright now, Draco somehow manages to not spill a drop as he holds it off the bed and leans in to press a pecking kiss to Hermione’s grumpy mouth. “Good morning, _ma petite_.”

Her soft lips seek his again, clinging briefly before she breaks away to rumble, “Coffee?”

“Have at it, Granger,” Draco guides the crockery into her greedy hands, smiling indulgently as she practically inhales a huge gulp. “I apologize for waking you, but it’s almost eleven o’clock – we’ve slept away most of the morning,” he informs, gently tucking a few wayward hickory-brown curls behind her ears lest they fall into the mug Hermione is cupping in both hands.

“But I wanted to spend more time with you,” Hermione whines petulantly, between slurps of doctored espresso.

“We enjoyed each other’s company last night, didn’t we?” Draco is gratified by Hermione’s pink flush as he alludes to their late return to the townhouse…

They’d emerged from the Floo to find Macdolas and Ruibby fast asleep in the sky blue beanbag, curled up in a classic spoon cuddle (with the television fuzzing silently on the sideboard)… fortunately, both elves had still been fully clothed.

Hermione had shushed Draco’s instinctive tut-tut of reproof, bending over to awaken their slumbering Scottish steward with a gentle pat.

“Mac? We’re home – it’s just me and Draco, don’t be alarmed,” she’d soothed, as Macdolas had morphed from sleepy winsome imp to savage crocodile in a matter of milliseconds. Ruibby had woken when Mac’s protective gnarly hands had tightened around her, sitting up to blink muzzily at the two humans.

“Master Theo is safe?” Mac had asked worriedly. “Her Grace Lady Granger frees Master Nott from unjust incarceration and the suspicion of wrongdoings?”.

“She certainly did, Macdolas…. Nice of you to assume I played no part in the process, though,” Draco had muttered the final phrase under his breath, further aggravated by his seneschal’s indifferent shrug.

“Macdolas has the utmost faith in Her Grace Lady Granger’s infinite powers of wisdom, strength, and persistence: Her Grace is the Brightest Witch in the Universe,” he’d proudly emphasized.

“I’ve bad news for you, shrimpet – you have a fresh rival jockeying for the title of Number One Fan in the Elven Society for the Appreciation of Hermione Granger Club,” Draco had taunted. “Wait until you meet Wireceaster: that slobbering little grot’s already given you a run for your money in the fawning stakes.”

“Malfoy – leave Wirey alone, he was quite charming… in an old-fashioned, Continental way,” Hermione had chided. “And he didn’t _slobber_ … not intentionally, anyway.”

“What is a ‘slobbering Wirey’?” Macdolas had demanded, disgruntlement plain on his sleep-creased face. “Macdolas and Ruibby already appoint themselves founding members and co-Presidents of ‘The Elven Society for the Appreciation of Her Grace Lady Hermione Jean Granger and Master Auror Harry James Potter, Sorcerers Extraordinaire and Saviours of the Wizarding World’, besides!” he’d indignantly announced. Ruibby had solemnly nodded her agreement, her blonde head tucked beneath Macdolas’s jutting chin.

“Merlin’s mongrel Murtlaps – I was joking,” Draco had choked out, around his helpless giggles. “What’s next, badges? You’ll want to find a catchy acronym… Hermione might be able to help you there,” he’d gasped.

“It’s sad how you think you’re comical,” Hermione had griped, clearly unimpressed with his sly mocking reference to ‘S.P.E.W.’.

“Ignore Draco, please. Wirey is Theo’s elderly house elf, he’s very sweet. Mac – will you escort Ruibby home to the Manor? We’re off to bed. Goodnight,” she’d all but dragged Draco behind her as the house elves had yawned and nodded; the sound of their joint Apparation audible as they’d ascended the staircase.

“A ruddy elven fan club,” Draco had bitched, even as Hermione had steered them into the ensuite bathroom and begun shedding their clothes in careless order. “They’re all out of control – you must see that, Granger.”

“Pfft. You’re simply jealous you’re not the subject of their adulation, my vain, pretty peacock,” Hermione had jested, her agile fingers quickly unfastening the fly of his trousers and reefing the pants and fitted boxers to his ankles. “Kick off your shoes and socks and step clear. We’re going to shower and go to bed – I’m knackered,” she’d sighed.

Doing as she’d bidden, Draco had yanked his jumper and shirt over his head in one swift move and busied himself helping Hermione out of her attire. Despite his resolution to keep their interaction non-sexual, he hadn’t been able to resist his hands lingering on her warm skin as he’d divested her of all outer wear and started on removing her bra and knickers.

“Malfoy… don’t tantalize me,” Hermione had groaned, her head dropping to her chest, eyes closing automatically as he’d trailed fine kisses along her shoulders, sweeping her hair to each side before bundling the curly mass into a loose knot and clumsily fixing it in place with the hair tie. Turning on the double showerheads and waiting until the water warmed sufficiently, Draco had led Hermione under the powerful twin sprays, careful not to wet her abundant chocolate mane.

“Let me l-lather you,” he had stuttered, picking up her soap and gliding it over her passive form, his eyes drawn to the suds alternately hiding and revealing her beautiful skin. He’d sternly instructed his rather too-interested cock to stand down, instead focusing on taking care of his tired, brilliant witch. When Draco had finished soaping Hermione from head to toe, he’d simply gathered her to him, nestling her head against his shoulder as he’d swayed them beneath the steamy water and thoroughly relished the intimate moment.

His poor, fatigued lioness had been unusually docile in the circle of his arms, merely pressing occasional little kisses against his clavicle until he’d reluctantly decided that if they stayed under the water any longer, their skin would prune.

Hermione hadn’t argued as he’d wrapped her in a fluffy navy bath sheet, patting her dry before lifting her into a bridal carry and walking the short distance back to their bedroom. He’d flipped back the bedding to place her underneath, hastily blotting himself with the dry ends of the towel before returning it to the bathroom with a flick of his wrist and muttered spell.

Slipping in beside her, Draco had gasped as her determined hand had reached for his semi-stiffened member. “ _Ma petite_ – you’re spent– go to sleep, darling,” he’d groaned, surprised by the strength of her hold as he’d failed to break her grip. The warm light of the bedside lamp had revealed the determined glint in his girlfriend’s eye.

“I’m not that tired, _mon chéri._ Make love to me, Draco… please. I want to feel you inside me… I’ll even let you do all the work,” she’d teased, splaying her limbs in an exaggerated ‘starfish’ pose. “Let’s enjoy some boring old ‘vanilla missionary’… I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

He’d been utterly unable to resist her giggling offer, his energy levels rallying as he’d made a pretence at seeming reluctant. “Well… I suppose I could crawl on top and unenthusiastically let you have your wicked way with me…”

 **Thwap!** A pillow to his face had soon followed, making them both laugh.

“I’m positive you can do better than that,” Hermione had cajoled, grabbing at his hips and batting her eyelashes as he’d happily settled to lie flush against her luscious young body.

“But of course… if you’d really rather not…”

“No – no, my troops have regrouped,” Draco had deadpanned, bending his head to drink deeply from her willing lips. His arms had borne the brunt of his weight, though Hermione had wrapped herself around him and urged him as close as he could get without crushing her outright.

The feeling of her soft sex rubbing languidly against his rigid rod had made his head spin. Hermione had set the quiet, paced tone of their joining, her hands trailing over his flexing back as their lips had unhurriedly explored each other’s mouths.

“Hermione… _tu m'émerveilles, tous les jours_ … watching you tonight, I was so proud of you,” Draco had whispered, in between their lazy smooches and gentle front-to-front slides. “You have no idea how magnificent you are, do you?” he’d asked, feathering his mouth along her jawline and nuzzling at her earlobes.

“Magnificent?” she’d breathed, moving her hands down to cup his tautened buttocks.

“Mmmm… incredibly smart, and strong, and so sexy… I cannot believe how lucky I am…” Throat closing with emotion, Draco had channelled his feelings into a passionate kiss, the wild leaping of his heartbeat at odds with their languorous coupling.

“I’m the lucky one… my Draco,” Hermione had bumped her legs a little wider, her face tilting to beam happily at him as he’d notched against her warm, wet entrance.

“ _Laisse-moi te montrer à quel point je t’adore_ , Hermione,” Draco had implored, holding off on surging inside her heated flesh until she’d nodded eagerly.

They’d moaned in unison as he’d sank in deeply, sheathing himself to the hilt and panting softly as he’d dropped his forehead to hers and taken a moment to steady his racing pulse. He’d finally begun a silken back-and-forth slide into her slick channel when her impatient little undulations had become impossible to resist.

Watching Hermione’s face all the while, Draco had taken pains to keep his thrusts measured and rhythmic, savouring every place that their bodies were joined: groin, limbs, and chest. Her soft budded nipples and ripe globes had felt almost unbearably delectable against his own harder skin and muscles.

Thinking of it now, Draco isn’t surprised to realize he has no true idea of how long they spent moving together… it had somehow felt like a bubble in time and space, suspending them together in a pocket of physical rapture, tender bliss and the familiar merging of their magical cores.

Hermione had whimpered as she’d neared her climax, Draco right behind her. Words had been unnecessary as they’d stared into each other’s wide eyes, sensation trading back and forth until Draco had been hard-pressed to comprehend the separation between their bodies, minds, and souls.

Ripples of pleasure had sent goosebumps across their skin, carnal pleasure gradually receding as heat and comfort… and quiet, unfettered joy had taken its place. Pupils blown wide, Draco had rolled them onto their sides, hugging Hermione tightly before resettling the bedding to cover them both.

“Goodnight, Draco… _mon cœur_ ,” Hermione had curled up against him like a little cat, still smiling faintly.

He’d waited until he’d heard her breathing drop into deep sleep before he’d whispered, “Goodnight, Hermione… _l’amour de ma vie_.”

As he now remembers his telling endearment of the night before, Draco hopes he isn’t mirroring Hermione’s shy blush. He hustles to change the subject before Hermione can pick up on his nerves and interrogate him as to the cause.

“Granger, regarding your decision to resign from the Ministry yesterday: has Headmistress McGonagall confirmed your appointment to Hogwarts teaching staff?” he queries, somehow keeping his heather grey eyes locked with Hermione’s as the ivory sheet she has tucked around her lithe form gapes alluringly at her front when she lifts her free hand to cover a yawn.

“Oh, no, not yet… I decided that regardless of whether I’m appointed as the new Arithmancy Professor, I don’t want to work at the Ministry anymore.” She raises the mug to her mouth again, only to lower it before she takes another swig.

“Are you upset that I didn’t discuss my decision with you beforehand? I apologize – that was thoughtless of me,” she asks anxiously.

“No, _ma petite_ : please don’t fret. I thought perhaps that your new role had been confirmed… you’re a shoo-in, of course,” Draco confidently avers. “McGonagall would have signed the paperwork to seal the deal the moment you left her office.”

He holds up a hand to halt her demurring protest. “No – I shan’t countenance hearing any humility from you. Let me sing your praises – it’s my right as your proud boyfriend, you know. Now, I have a few other discussion points for you, my sharp-witted little witch: when were you planning on telling me of your father’s demands for a caricature? Apparently I must complete the best satirical sketch of my career tonight, if I’m to outdo his friend Richard’s recent drawing,” Draco razzes, as Hermione snickers.

“I completely forgot! Don’t worry, it will be a cinch for you… being the incredibly gifted artist that I know you to be,” she deliberately simpers, between giggles.

“Keep going,” Draco sniffs, holding his patrician nose high as he makes a twirling motion with his left hand.

Putting aside her empty mug, Hermione wiggles closer, picking up his hand and stroking her thumb across the back. “Where do I begin? Hmmm… well, you’re amazingly talented… terribly clever… witty… kind… supportive… altruistic… bilingual… “. Each adjective is punctuated with a butterfly-soft kiss to his knuckles.

“What else…? Let me think… generous… caring… disgustingly rich… handsome… sexy… yes, that’s one of my particular favourites,” she moves his hand to her velvety cheek, pressing her next kiss to his palm.

“I suppose that’s an acceptable list of desirable attributes: though you’ve completely omitted any mention of my big dick,” Draco delights in her burbling laughter at his crudity.

“I won’t dignify that with a response,” Hermione snips at last, winking lasciviously. “Are we all caught up? I need to get dressed and have something to eat,” she begins to swing her bare legs out of the big bed.

“Two more things: why does your father call you ‘Little Wendy’? And when he tells me “I’m watching you” – Draco repeats the odd forked-finger circular gesture Bernard Granger had threatened him with at the St Mungo’s – “is there some special import behind it? I need to be as prepared as possible for this evening’s… entertainment”.

“Oh, Malfoy – come, help me pick out an outfit: I’ll try to cover a few gaps in your woeful knowledge of strange Muggle mores…”

* * *

_Wednesday 19 March 2003: PM_

“Harry – you look like you haven’t slept for three weeks!” Hermione is clearly aghast at her dear friend’s sunken eyes and ashen complexion after Potter steps back from their hug.

“Yeah, we were up all night checking every single file note and piece of evidence on the case,” Harry admits, taking off his spectacles to rub at his already-reddened green eyes. “I’ll sleep the slumber of the just tonight, let me tell you!”.

A broad, triumphant grin stretches across his weary face as he quietly crows, “We’ve had a breakthrough – well, two, actually. Finally caught up with that fool reporter who dragged Malfoy’s reputation through the mud this morning; the moron fled his rented Barcelonian villa to flee home to his mother’s house, if you can believe it. He’s currently chewing down his grimy fingernails and singing like a canary in one of the interrogation rooms as we speak.’

“And we’ve got Barry Bones cold on accepting a heft bribe yesterday afternoon. Pritchard-Hawes served the warrant on Gringotts himself… Bones didn’t even attempt to hide the sack of bloody Galleons, they were sitting smack-dab in the middle of his vault, for the love of lions,” Harry shakes his head incredulously.

_That pigeon-brained, blustering, bloated bastard._

Draco thinks he is the one growling aloud until Hermione snarls, “Where is he?!? Has he been involved in this fell conspiracy all along? I’ll goddamn _EVISCERATE_ him!”. Draco shares an alarmed look with Potter as he catches Hermione around the waist, holding her still before she can rush out the door to exact her gruesome revenge.

“Hermione – it’s OK – please,” Harry entreats. “I promise you – the Head Auror is entrusting this with my team alone. Gilmont, Faulkner, and I are handling this – Bones and Stibbons will pay dearly for their parts in this connivance. Try not to get agitated, love.”

“Please, Granger… listen to Harry. You know he’ll move heaven and earth to get to the bottom of this plot – and to see justice served. Let him do his job… without adding to his worries, hmmm?” Draco hopes his quiet observation will calm his angry witch. _Or at the very least, give her pause for thought._

Both wizards breathe easier when Hermione closes her irate cocoa eyes and relaxes in Draco’s hold. “Alright… I’m alright. You can release me now, Malfoy.” She spins in his grasp, curling her arms around his neck to plant a firm yet affectionate kiss on his wary lips.

“Harry, I do trust you – implicitly. Of course I do,” she asserts, turning again to address the black-haired Auror. “I know how hard you’re working on solving this case, and keeping me from further danger,” Hermione conveys her sincerity with a quick squeeze to Potter’s forearm.

“I’m just so furious that either wickedness, greed, or all-out stupidity – hell, maybe a combination of all three! – have allowed these scumbags to endanger me, and my family and friends. If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all–”

“I hear you, Hermione. And of course – I pledge to keep you updated, and to enlist your help as required. Your safety is paramount, though, OK? That extends to your fiery Snake boyfriend,” Harry grins, his usually affable mien losing its current harsh lines as he pokes gentle fun at Draco’s quick temper.

 _I’m only feral when it comes to protecting Hermione._ Draco bites back the defensive statement, not wanting to gift Potter any more ammunition. He twitches his upper lip in a faint sneer instead.

“Harry… do you believe anyone else in the Ministry is involved? What about Bones’s Auror team?” Hermione presses.

“We’re still checking them out, but Leopold – sorry, Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes – and I believe them to be innocent of actual collusion, albeit not too bright. They were following Bones’s orders unquestioningly when they swooped on Nott House and arrested Theo last night,” Harry expounds. “They will receive a formal warning, but no charges.”

“And what of the reporter – Stibbons, is it? Has he identified the man (or men) who paid him to run that mud-slinging article?” Draco quizzes.

“He never dealt with the bloke face-to-face, but he kept surprisingly good file notes on the entirety of their interactions,” Harry divulges. “With enough cross-referencing and our keen eyes across it – we’ll get him.”

“Thanks, Harry. I realize you’re feeling as frustrated as we are… I have absolute faith in you,” Hermione attests. “Right, Malfoy?” she nudges Draco for his added support.

“Right,” he readily accedes. The slightly shocked look on Potter’s face is worth overcoming any last reservations in solidly throwing his endorsement behind ‘Lightning Bolt’ again.

“Granger, are you ready to leave? I’ll escort you back to your office, and Macdolas,” Draco suggests. “Potter, you look like you’re about ready to drop – maybe eat a sandwich before you faint, eh?”.

“When we get back to my office, I’ll send down Macdolas to the cafeteria to run you up some lunch, Harry. Draco will stick around until Mac delivers it, watches you consume it, and returns to us; so make sure you actually _eat_ the food, please,” Hermione affectionately threatens/scolds.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, love.” Harry smiles and waves them out. “Stay in touch, please.”

Back in Hermione’s office, Draco barely waits for Macdolas to skip out merrily on an errand for his wizardly idols before he sits down in Hermione’s creaky old office chair and scoops her onto his lap.

“Are you feeling better, sweetheart? Knowing that Potter is finally making some progress?” Draco carefully asks, jiggling Hermione up and down a little as she squeaks and coils her arms around his neck.

“Hey, stop that – you’re ruining my professional image, you know,” Hermione fusses at her skirt, ineffectually attempting to pull it back down over her shapely knees. “To answer your question – yes… knowing that things are beginning to fall apart for the ‘villains’ is satisfying… but I am living for the day when we can put all this mess behind us. I don’t want to be afraid any more, Malfoy,” she sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“I’m scared – scared they are going to come after you… I don’t know what I’d do, if– if I lost you,” she rasps, burying her face against his neck and hiccoughing muffled sobs.

Kissing her heated forehead, Draco murmurs soothing vocables, despondent at her continued stress and suffering over the wretched situation.

“I understand, _ma petite_. But we’re going to be fine, you and I: no, we’re going to be _spectacular_ – together,” Draco underscores. “No one is going to part us ever again, Hermione. Or my name’s not Draco Lucius Malfoy – or Jake Malloy,” he smiles as he deliberately copies her tenacious assurance of the night before.

“Now… please give me a kiss, to help carry me through an afternoon without you… and to fortify me for the terrifying prospect of facing your father’s dubious chilli traps; exhortations to allow an impromptu dental examination; and demands for unpaid caricature commissions tonight,” Draco pleads.

His half-joking trepidation sparks a wan smile on his anxious girlfriend’s face, before she circles back to his avowal.

“We’ll be OK, Draco?”. Her sad sienna eyes look to his steel ones for solace and certitude.

“I swear we will, Hermione.”

* * *

**German translations:**

_Solch Körper - und Geisteskraft!_ – such strength of body and mind!

 _die schönste aller Hexen_ – the most beautiful of all witches.

**French translations:**

_tu m'émerveilles, tous les jours_ – you enthrall me, every day.

 _Laisse-moi te montrer à quel point je t’adore_ – Let me show you how much I adore you.

 _l’amour de ma vie_ – my one true love.


	52. Endorsement

__

_Wednesday 19 March 2003: PM_

“Draco! How felicitous, darling – we were just talking about you,” Narcissa’s tiny dimple in her right cheek momentarily indents as she graciously rises and ushers her son to sit in the armchair between her and her husband.

“Only good things, Draco – no need to look alarmed,” Lucius adds, as he regains his own seat.

_Salazar’s smelly socks… Did Father actually make a little joke? Could that possibly be a tiny smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth, or do I need to borrow Potter’s spectacles?_

Draco’s eyes wander over his sire’s impeccably dressed form as he murmurs a return greeting to his parents. Lucius looks positively dapper, compared to his subdued presentation a few days ago. His ice grey eyes are– well, ‘sparkling’ is a shade or three too far, but they certainly possess a sheen they have notably lacked for quite some time.

Even the former Lord Malfoy’s clothing looks to have been artfully tailored to better fit his underweight frame… and his silver hair is clean and lustrous.

_Mother looks terribly pleased with herself… I believe her persistent urgings for Father to seek help have finally paid dividends._

“Your father’s looking well, isn’t he, Draco?” Narcissa prompts. The smug twinkle in her eye is rather aggravating; _of course_ she cannot resist nudging at his consciousness and calling him out on his thoughts.

“Indeed: how are you feeling, Father?” Draco concurs. He accepts an aromatic cup of tea from Narcissa with a small nod of thanks.

“Quite well, Draco. I saw a Healer on Monday morning; your mother arranged for her to come to the Manor, of course. Ran a battery of diagnostic spells and eventually determined I am suffering from anaemia and depression.” Lucius shifts restlessly in his armchair after his stilted confession.

Draco sips at his tea, surprised when a small chunk of something brown floats to the surface. “Er… what kind of tea is this? I thought you preferred classic black or green tea in the afternoons, Mother?”.

“It’s Chaga mushroom tea – Healer Kuznetsova recommended I imbibe it,” Lucius answers. “It is a tad bitter at first, but there’s a slight vanilla undertone that is rather pleasing.”

 _Wonder how cross he’d be if I used that sentence to describe his current state of being._ Draco dutifully quaffs another mouthful of the exotic beverage (mostly to hide his smile).

“Yes, Freya was wonderfully thorough,” Narcissa enthuses. “She devised a detailed plan encompassing diet, exercise, regular exposure to sunlight, the teas, and some non-addictive anti-depressant potions.” She cuts her cerulean eyes to her husband as she hesitantly adds, “Freya also recommended the benefits of intensive therapy… whenever Lucius feels comfortable with the premise.”

 _Wow._ The fact that Lucius is merely silently brooding at Narcissa’s pronouncement and not flying into a cold rage at the heretofore ‘preposterous’ concept of psychotherapy is in itself a minor miracle. Draco shakes off the odd notion that he has somehow stumbled into a parallel universe… one in which his father appears only mildly uncomfortable with beginning to address his myriad demons.

“That’s excellent news – the treatment plan, I mean,” Draco comments. “If you ever need my assistance with any of it, you need but ask.”

“Thank you, son.” Lucius’s smile is tight, but not unpleasant. “What brings you to the Manor today, may I ask?”.

Draco fidgets beneath their dual scrutiny. “A few errands… I’m picking up an order I placed with Lutin’s Pixel _Entreprise_ ; Ruibby told Macdolas it arrived yesterday.”

His mother pounces on his hedged half-truth like a hawk on a fieldmouse. “And the rest? Come, _mon fils_ : I don’t need to call upon my Seer powers to know you’re holding back a few critical details,” Narcissa complacently declares.

“Well… the Ministry has finally made a few advances in apprehending the scum who have been plotting to harm Hermione – though one of their own Aurors is currently in custody for attempting to frame Theo last night… Don’t worry, Mother, Hermione charged in there like a rampaging Erumpent and cleared Theo’s name in under two hours. She was bloody spectacular to watch in action,” his voice softens with awe and proud affection. “Potter is confident they’ll be making accurate arrests by the end of the week,” Draco assures.

“On a more domestic front: Hermione and I wish to host a surprise birthday party for Macdolas in a fortnight’s time – the fourth of April, to be exact. Here. At the Manor, I mean. Not this parlour,” Draco blurts. He flicks a quick assessing glance at his parents; Lucius is impassive, while Narcissa is eagerly leaning forward.

“What a lovely idea! Luncheon, or dinner? That date falls on a Friday – oh, dinner would be ideal, then. Shall we commandeer the ballroom, or would a temporary marquee in the grounds be best? What does Hermione want to do, Draco?” Narcissa chatters excitedly.

“They’re not married yet, Cissa,” Lucius rolls his steel-grey eyes; Draco forces himself to bite back his instinctively defensive retort as he sees his father’s face relax into tolerant resignation, rather than caustic disapprobation. “I’m certain Draco has his own plans for this doubtlessly lunatic assembly.”

Narcissa waves her fair hands dismissively. “Pah! Attempting to deny the inevitability of their union is utterly futile, Lucius. We discussed this: I shan’t countenance any resistance on your part. Hermione Granger _will_ be our daughter-in-law, and the sooner you wholly accommodate that idea, the easier your life will be,” she warns, with the thread of immutable steel in her voice that Draco has respected (and feared) ever since he was old enough to speak.

“Cissa, you _know_ I have made my peace–”

“Hold your Hippogriffs, we’re not even _engaged_ –”

The Malfoy men speak at once, their clamorous objections jointly dying beneath Narcissa’s withering azure gaze.

“Draco, while I have had some… reservations… about your alliance with Ms Granger – Ms Hermione – be assured I do not oppose it,” a chastened Lucius mumbles. “I was merely making the observation that you may have meaningful input into the plans for Macdolas’s party.”

“Thank you, Father. I do have some ideas… provided Mother and Hermione deign to include them,” Draco mutters in a quiet aside.

“Mother – I’ll thank you to not put the carriage before the Thestral. I have no wish for Hermione to skitter or feel uneasy thanks to undue parental pressure.” Draco hates the fact that his traitorous ears are tipped pink, plainly signalling his rising embarrassment. “Please don’t push.”

“Very well. But darling, would you ask Hermione to contact me in regards to Macdolas’s birthday extravaganza, please? Whenever she has the time, of course.” Narcissa refreshes her fine china tea cup and watches Draco shrewdly over its rim.

“Certainly – but that is unlikely to occur until after the Spring Equinox Ball. Perhaps Saturday or Sunday would suit,” Draco replies. Glancing at his wristwatch, he stands to leave.

“I must away, I’ve business in Diagon Alley.” He kisses Narcissa goodbye, surprised when Lucius ignores his outstretched hand in favour of a brief, dreadfully awkward side-hug.

“Collecting your formal attire for the Gala?” his father asks as they relievedly step apart.

“Something like that,” Draco temporizes, thinking of his planned visits to Gringotts and Cheruwellery’s Fine Jewels. He turns at the door to impart his final nugget of information.

“Oh, one last thing: Hermione is determined that the party is to be costume-themed, and she intends to invite the gamut of Macdolas’s friends and acquaintances… including Rubeus Hagrid, his boarhound, Hermione’s half-Kneazle cat…”

“…and Harry Potter.”

Chuckling softly, Draco slips through the portal as Lucius explicitly snarls, “ _Putain de merde!_ ”.

_Better get used to being regularly invaded by Gryffindors, Father._

* * *

“Mac, I am positive Ruibby will like the lovely flowers you’ve arranged for her,” Hermione wearily states for the third time ( _but who’s counting?_ ), as her nervous elven bodyguard frets over the massive vase of light pink, orange, and coral roses, interspersed with mauve carnations and delicate white coriander flowers, that sits on her desk.

“There’s no time to send it back to the florist, in any case: it’s time for us to leave, little mate. I’ve already texted Dad that Draco and I will be arriving later to dinner – I want to help you set up your bedroom before Ruibby arrives,” Hermione reminds.

“Her Grace Lady Granger is the kindest, the most considerate, the _dearest_ witch in the history of–” Macdolas looks perilously close to tears before Hermione interrupts his accolade.

“Thank you, Mac. Grab that vase securely and let’s drop into my flat to collect the fairy lights before we go home.”

Twenty minutes later, Hermione is stringing her old Christmas tree bulbs along the upper walls of Mac’s small, converted boxroom when she hears the Floo activate.

“Macdolas? Granger? Where are you, _ma petite_?” Draco’s sophisticated tones reverberate throughout the townhouse.

“I’m in Mac’s room, Malfoy,” Hermione hollers enthusiastically, affixing the last strand of lights in place with her wand and another sturdy thumbtack. Plugging the cord into the corner power point, she switches on the tiny lamps and nods in satisfaction as the glimmering decorations wink and flicker in a slow, repetitive pattern.

 _Perfect_. Happy grin stretched across her face, Hermione flies into Draco’s arms the moment he appears in the open doorway. He returns her bussing kiss with fervent pressure and zest.

“Hallo, my gorgeous girlfriend! How I have missed you,” Draco cups her face in both hands, smiling down into her cheery face. Hermione notes how fine he looks, dressed in a navy suit and matching shirt and tie.

 _Block colour matching seems to be his particular fashion fort_ _é… though I’m yet to discover any colours or combinations that don’t suit the extraordinarily handsome rogue._ She cocks her head to the side as she enquires, “What have you been up to this afternoon, _mon chéri_? You look awfully pleased with yourself.”

“All in due time, my curious lioness.” Draco taps her lightly on the nose before he kisses it and steps back to scrutinize her current project.

As well as the fairy lights, Hermione has spruced up Mac’s living quarters with some pretty pastel silk flowers her mother gave her, plus two red throw rugs borrowed from her Chesterfield. The enormous bunch of flowers Mac ordered has pride of place beside his king single-sized cast iron bedframe with its dark crimson velvet bedspread.

“Quite the little elfish love nest – you’ve outdone yourself, Granger,” Draco declares. “Though the space is a bit too ‘Gryffindor Red’ for my liking,” he teases, as she wrinkles her nose and feigns botheration.

“Where is the pygmy stud muffin, anyway?” Draco pulls a small paper bag from his jacket pocket. “Mother bade me to give him this, as a ‘final touch’.” He pokes it open before Hermione can chastise him. “Chockfull of rose petals from the Manor’s gardens. Ah, Mother… you incurable romantic.”

“Mac is upstairs, bathing; I gave him permission to have a calming soak in our tub while I finished decorating his room,” Hermione clarifies. “Don’t look so aghast, he’s using his own toiletries. Poor little mite is jumping out of his skin with nerves… I added some Epsom salts to the bathwater.”

Draco arches his eyebrow. “Is he experiencing cold feet? He shouldn’t do anything he’s not comfortable with… I thought he was ready for this.”

“No – he is ready, he’s just suffering some understandable jitters,” Hermione affirms. “Mac is obsessing over minutiae to avoid dwelling on his fear of disappointing his beloved Ruibby in any way.”

“Ruibby is going to be over the moon with this excessive floral tribute, at the very least,” Draco carefully rubs his fingertips over the soft petals. “Did he leave any blossoms in the shop? I see he’s been studying floriography, too.”

“You should be flattered – Harry isn’t really Mac’s primary idol, you know,” Hermione smiles. “Shhh – I think I hear him coming down the stairs. Be nice, Malfoy.”

“Nice… bah,” Draco grumbles, falling silent as Macdolas trots inside. The green-eyed house elf clasps together his hands in patent delight, whirling about the room as he takes in Hermione’s efforts.

“Her Grace Lady Granger hath transformed Macdolas’s humble lodgings into a boudoir fit for a king! Macdolas’s cup runneth over!” he cries. Hermione elbows Draco in his muscled ribs to dissuade his chuckles at Mac’s appearance.

“I’m glad you like it, Mac. Look, Narcissa sent on a bag of fresh rose petals to scatter on your bed, too.” Hermione prompts Draco to hand the gift to his major-domo.

“Dare I enquire as to your wardrobe choice for this auspicious occasion, Macdolas? You look clean as a whistle, at any rate,” Draco acknowledges.

Smoothing down the wide brocade cuffs of his red and gold mid-length jacket, Macdolas haughtily replies, “It is the preferred fashion of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Master Malfoy: a great and daring hero… and a dashing, faithful lover.” He blushes on the last word, his face turning almost as red as his hair. “Macdolas believes his garb brings him good fortune… and his beautiful Ruibby tells Macdolas she likes him best in the colour red.”

Hermione steps in before Draco can say anything half-smart to the mercurial manikin. “You look very handsome and debonair, Mac. Now, I’m going to run upstairs and quickly freshen up before Draco and I leave for Mum and Dad’s place. I think Draco wants a word with you before we depart.” Careful not to crush Mac’s immaculate white cambric cravat or paisley-patterned waistcoat, Hermione kneels to hug her friend and deposit a loving kiss upon his shining forehead.

“Have a wonderful night, Mac. You’ll be fine, never fear,” she whispers.

Gulping, Mac can only blink and nod, while Draco frowns at her. Her boyfriend clearly mouths the words, “Wait for me” – which Hermione happily ignores.

Humming tunelessly, she risks taking the steps two at a time.

_Lord Malfoy does have a mandated responsibility to look after his staff, after all._

* * *

“Granger, I can easily Transfigure this pot of tropical anthuriums into something less… phallic,” Draco worries, as they stand before their Floo. “I don’t want your father tearing strips off me for inadvertently offending your mother– I only chose them because they mean ‘thank you for your hospitality’…”

_Goodness gracious, what is it with the males in her life and their flower-based indecisiveness?_

“Malfoy, Mum will love the potted plant, OK? Don’t fuss. Dad will get cranky if we’re late to dinner, though.” She grabs his spare hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “The flowers are perfect – I didn’t particularly notice the funny white… dongles, only the heart-shaped leaves.”

“Oh. Good. But your dad might–”

Deciding actions trump words, Hermione drags her agonizing lover into the Floo with her.

Stepping out into her parents’ fireplace moments later, she continues to tow a fretting Draco behind her as she calls out, “Mum? Dad? We’re here!”.

Jane Granger walks into the comfortably-decorated living room, swiftly untying a plain cream apron from around her waist before folding her arms around her daughter. “Hallo, sweetie – it’s so good to see you looking well, and so happy.”

“Mrs Granger – Jane – these are for you. They’re tropical anthuriums: but I can Transfigure them into a different plant or flower though, if you’d prefer, it’s no trouble–” Draco nervily offers.

Moving nearer to stroke the waxy tomato-red leaves, Jane pats Draco gently on his fair cheek. “They’re stunning. Thank you, Draco. It’s lovely to host such a thoughtful young man,” she sets his mind at ease with her sincere acceptance of his gift.

Slipping an arm around her daughter’s waist, she nods to the set of French doors separating the lounge room from the side terrace. “Draco, why don’t you step outside and help Barney with the barbecue? Hermione, please bring the potted plant along to the kitchen – I’ve just the place for it. You can help me with the salad while our men have a little chat.”

Hermione spares a consoling kiss to Draco’s parted mouth before she adroitly snags the magnificent red, green and white plant from his uneasily flexing fingers. “Remember – he can smell your fear, _mon_ _cœur_. Dad’s really just a big old pussycat; and he loves a captive audience. If all else fails… show him your teeth,” she whispers, with a wicked wink.

“Great. Thanks for abandoning me to the ‘Father Dentist Granger’, _ma petite_ ,” Draco wryly complains. His Adam’s apple jerks before he questions, “He doesn’t carry dentistry tools upon his person, though… does he? Granger?”.

Hermione simply waggles a little finger-wave as she follows her mother into the bungalow’s kitchen. The mother and daughter tip back their heads and share identical-sounding laughs as they catch one another’s eye.

“Poor Draco: I feel rather mean, considering the positively terrified expression on his handsome face,” Jane Granger gasps, as Hermione unleashes a fresh cackle of mirth. “He isn’t truly afraid of your father, is he? Barney is all bark and no bite, you know.”

“I know, Mum – but it will do Draco’s healthy ego no harm to have to work his charm more thoroughly than usual,” Hermione immediately dismisses her mother’s reservations. She sets down the pot plant on the edge of the oak wood benchtop and perches on a matching tall stool.

“Now, if you’ll please hand me that chopping board and a sharp knife, I’ll start slicing and dicing; and you can tell me how your week’s been going, OK?”.

Passing over the requested kitchen implements, Jane giggles as she begins, “Well… wait until you see your father’s latest ‘Man Cave’ acquisition; he’s really outdone himself, this time…!”

* * *

His left hand stills on the handle of the tall French door, as Draco allows himself a fleeting moment to steady his nerve. He can see Bernard Granger bent over the compact barbecue on the well-lit terrace in the backyard of the suburban bungalow, intently prodding and adjusting meat and vegetables.

_Remember – Hermione said he’s thawing toward you. He was surprisingly non-judgemental after learning of your addiction battle. Just go out there and make chit chat. You’ve got this. You **are** a wizard, you big chicken… just quietly Petrify the bloke if he pulls out pliers or a drill. _

Winding up his internal pep talk, Draco quickly steps onto the terrace and announces his presence. “Good evening, Mr Granger. You have a lovely home, sir. Thank you very much for the dinner invitation; I’ve been anticipating it all week.” _Trepidation… anticipation… near enough._

Bernard Granger nimbly transfers an oversized pair of stainless steel tongs from his right hand to his left, freeing up his big paw to heartily slap Draco on the back.

 _Ouch_. Draco grits his teeth and smiles stiffly as he stifles his wince.

“Draco! You’re just in time to throw your peri-peri portion on the grill – here, take the tongs and snaffle that wing quarter,” Bernard nods to the last piece of chicken left on the plate beside the barbecue.

 _Sweet Mother of Merlin – it’s red enough to be mistaken for Mars._ Draco considers using the giant tongs jammed unceremoniously into his left hand to surreptitiously knock the radioactive meat onto the tiled floor of the terrace, but decides against the tactic. _Bernard would likely simply wipe it down and insist I eat it regardless._

He pats the hip flask full of chilled milk he’d stowed in the left front pocket of his black jeans before they’d departed the townhouse. _It probably looks much worse than it really is._

“Looks bloody delicious, doesn’t it?” Bernard gaily proclaims. “Marinated it overnight – wanted to ensure you got your money’s worth. Go on, boy – throw it on,” he urges.

Flipping the flattened scarlet portion carefully onto the grill, Draco hands back the tongs. “All yours, sir.”

“Call me Bernard,” Hermione’s father magnanimously allows. “Want to have a talk to you, lad – man-to-man – before we go into dinner.”

 _Ah. Shit. Run._ Draco freezes before his legs can obey his brain’s instinctive command. Bernard chuckles heartily beside him.

“Cool your jets, boy: I want to know whether you’re here for the long run. With Little Wendy, I mean,” Bernard elucidates. “I reckon the question’s redundant, given the perpetually devoted look on your pale face… but I figured it was time I laid down the law, so to speak.”

He snaps the tongs teasingly as Draco recoils. “Ha! Sorry – couldn’t resist. I’m renowned for my cheeky sense of humour; I’m sure Hermione’s mentioned it,” Bernard guffaws. “So? Do you intend to live _de facto_ with my favourite daughter indefinitely, or is marriage on the cards?” he presses, prodding judiciously at the chicken pieces.

“I’d marry her tomorrow if I thought she’d agree to it,” Draco blurts. “Hermione means _everything_ to me, Mr Gra–Bernard. If she ever left me, I don’t know what I’d do… probably just fade away and die of a broken heart,” he chokes.

 _Just thinking of a life without her is intolerable… insupportable._ Draco is horribly afraid he is about to start sniffling… in front of his girlfriend’s unpredictably caustic parent. _Get a fucking hold of yourself._

“Good,” Bernard casually replies. “Hold up that white platter, please – corn’s ready.”

Draco dutifully waits until the buttery yellow ears have been expertly stacked before he ventures, “You’re not… angry? Worried it’s too soon? Concerned your future grandchildren may carry the taint and stigma of their father being… an alcoholic?”. _Way to dig your own grave, dickhead._ He literally bites his tongue before it can add any more bullet points to his list of faults.

“I wasn’t impressed when I first learned about your relationship – no point pretending otherwise,” Bernard admits. “However – I’ve watched the two of you closely, and there’s no doubt in my mind you’d walk through fire if Hermione asked you to fetch her a hot coal. As for it being too soon… well, I knew within ten minutes of meeting my Jane that I wanted to marry her. Told her just that, actually,” he puffs out his chest with pride. “My sugarpuss was naturally initially reluctant to admit she felt the same way, but I knew we were destined soulmates. You just… you _know_ , right? And it’s not physical – well, it is, but it isn’t – it’s deeper. Stronger. Molecular magnetism, higher consciousness, past lives… I dunno. Sounds like mumbo jumbo, but you know it when you feel it. And boy, did I feel it!”.

Barney pauses in his manipulation of tongs and meat to nod emphatically at Draco, a wide smile splitting his bearded visage. “Here’s the other thing: when our daughter decides on something – or someone – she _will not_ be swayed. Takes a helluva lot for Hermione to give up her loyalty and love. I mean, it happens – ask Ron Weasley – but she is as fierce with her heart as she is generous and kind. You’re a very lucky man, Draco… but I’ve a feeling you already realize that.”

“Indeed I do, sir,” Draco fervently agrees.

“Now, as to your last point… you’re rehabilitated and in recovery – not the town drunk. And there’s absolutely no reason to exclude you from the Granger genetic pool based on any genetic predilection to addiction,” Bernard soberly states. “My parents died when my father drove home drunk from a pub, Draco. Trust me – I understand your concerns.”

He claps a hand on Draco’s shoulder, markedly more gently than his gesture of greeting. “Anything you want to add, Draco? Take the opportunity while I’m feeling unusually benevolent and maudlin, eh?”.

“Potter– Harry, I mean… he mentioned that you didn’t overly care for the Weas– Ronald Weasley. Did he do something unforgivable to Hermione?” Draco is unable to stop himself voicing the query (though he attempts to keep his pitch level, and relatively free of his entrenched antipathy).

“Unforgivable… well, I suppose that depends on your viewpoint,” Bernard muses, pointing at a silver tray; Draco picks it up and holds it steady as the older man begins piling on the cooked Portuguese chicken pieces.

“Ron’s not a bad bloke, Draco – oh, I know all about your rivalry, slug-puke hexes and nasty modified badges and what-not–”

“Weasley was the one who made himself spew slugs – and he was aiming for _me_ ,” Draco protests.

“In defence of my daughter, after you’d just called her a ‘Mudblood’ – I’d shut up, if I were you… Back to Ron – and don’t interrupt me again,” Bernard warns. “Bottom line: I never thought Ron was good enough for my daughter. He was like a teenaged kid being given the rare opportunity to drive a Rolls Royce – but he treated her like an old Austin Metro with a clapped-out gearbox and three bald tyres.”

“I’m sorry, I understood almost none of that analogy… Is Hermione the Rolls Royce, or the Austin Metro?” Draco is compelled to admit his confusion. _Is Bernard Granger truly comparing Hermione to a **car**? _

“Little Wendy’s the bloody Rolls Royce, of course – bugger it, I forgot you wizardly lot are hopeless about automobiles,” Bernard sighs. “I’ll come at it from a different angle, alright? Ron’s like a Labrador puppy. All appetite and enthusiasm, but will also indiscriminately drool over anyone and everything. Fun to be around, but tiresome without some proper training and restraint.”

 _Here’s a metaphor I can get behind._ Draco grins as he imagines the Weasel as a goofy russet Lab.

He is distracted from his happy thoughts as Bernard continues, “But you – you’re like… what’s the name of those fancy dogs that were wildly popular in the 70s? You know – purebred, tall, snooty, silky long coats that need a lot of grooming?”.

“Afghan hounds?” Draco suggests, not bothering to mask his perturbation. “You’re saying I’m a show dog?”. His schadenfreude at Weasley’s unflattering description rapidly deflates.

Bernard snaps his fingers in delight. “That’s the one – Afghans! I should have remembered that, toyed with the idea of getting one, years ago,” he wistfully reveals. “Couldn’t afford it – they cost a pretty penny.”

“Beautiful animals, really. High maintenance, of course. Very intelligent, aloof, strong-willed, fiercely brave. Dignified, but stubborn as a mule.” Laughing as he catches sight of Draco’s affronted expression, Bernard finishes placing Draco’s ‘special’ piece of chicken onto the tray.

“Cheer up, lad: I haven’t finished. Afghans were originally bred as extremely skilled hunters – didn’t know that, I’ll warrant! They’re savage and smart enough to bring down antelopes, and even leopards. Enough about dogs, though. You’re a far better match for my girl, that’s the crux of the matter. She deserves a man – a wizard – who’ll put her first, every time. Ron Weasley didn’t.”

“Erm… right. Thanks. I will. I mean, I do. Put Hermione first,” Draco blathers, cringing internally at how ruddy imbecilic he sounds.

“If you hurt my Little Wendy, I’ll rope in Harry to ‘Stump’ you one night and bring you into the surgery,” Bernard deadpans. “Let’s just say – by the time you came to, you’d have a significantly altered set of teeth. Do you understand what I’m saying, Draco?”.

“Absolutely. I’d rather cut off my left hand than ever hurt Hermione,” Draco firmly promises. “By the way… I think you meant ‘Stun’, not ‘Stump’, sir?”. _Salazar’s sake… I should have kept my mouth shut… I think Bernard was actually giving me his (warped) blessing…_

“Is that right? Makes more sense, I suppose,” Bernard turns off the gas barbecue burners before picking up the platter of corn. “Come on, Best in Show – let’s see how you like Barney’s Famous Portuguese Chicken.”

* * *

“Draco? Is something wrong?” Jane Granger quietly asks, her kind hazel eyes seeking out his own across the large round pinewood dining table. “We have white pepper instead of cracked, if you’d prefer?” she offers.

“Uh, no, thank you, Jane,” Draco raises his eyes from his plate, smiling reassuringly at her. “Cracked pepper is fine.”

“Go on, Draco – try your peri-peri portion,” Bernard encourages, his chocolate eyes agleam with mischief. “Anyone would think you were scared to take a bite!”.

Hermione finishes dressing her salad and cocks her head. “I smell a rat… Dad, what have you done?” she accuses, craning her neck to check Draco’s plate.

“What on earth?!? Dad – why does Draco’s piece of chicken look like it’s been cooked under a flamethrower? It’s redder than a post box!”. Scraping back her chair, Hermione moves to switch her father’s plate with Draco’s.

“Honestly, Dad – you have such a puerile sense of ‘humour’ sometimes,” she berates. “What if Draco were allergic to all this horrid chilli you’ve piled onto his meat?” she growls. “Like we don’t have enough people trying to kill us!”.

Bernard stays her angry hand, looking sheepish as he confesses, “It’s alright, leave the plates alone, Hermione. I didn’t really soak Draco’s quarter in extra chilli – it’s just a paste I slathered on. Semi-dried tomatoes and a bit of bog standard tomato sauce, that’s all. It’s not any hotter than anyone else’s.’

“Sorry, Little Wendy. And you too, Draco,” the dentist appends as an afterthought. While Bernard is hanging his head in shame (or at least, regret that he’s been found out), Draco quietly slides his flask of milk back into his hip pocket.

“Barney, I’m so disappointed in you,” Jane Granger says rebukingly. “Treating an honoured guest in our home in such a fashion… rather poor form, darling. You could learn more than a thing or two by emulating Draco’s impeccable manners: he even brought me a beautiful pot of tropical anthuriums tonight.”

“Not particularly polite to gift my wife a bunch of hoity-toity plasticky red leaves with little white wangs hanging off them, if you ask me,” Barney sullenly grouses.

“If you’re referring to the finger-shaped spike protruding from the spathe, it’s called a ‘spadix’, Bernard.” Draco figures he’s earned the right to defend his floral offering, considering he was to be the butt of Bernard’s culinary joke.

“See – it’s even got the word ‘dicks’ in it!” Bernard whinges, as Hermione and her mother glare at him with identical expressions of aggravated condemnation.

“I think you should shut up now, my dearest husband. Please.” Jane Granger turns to Draco once more.

“It’s a shame Macdolas couldn’t accompany you two this evening: Hermione tells me he’s on a very important date tonight? And that you wrote and illustrated a fascinating instructional text to help guide him through it?” Jane prompts.

Draco falters halfway through chewing his tasty (and nontoxic) first bite of spicy chicken. _Oh, Granger – why did you have to tell your mother about the unspeakable elfin doings taking place beneath our roof tonight? And tout my reluctant foray into authorship?_

Aware that every eye in the room is focused upon him, Draco ensures he has diligently masticated and swallowed his entire mouthful of food before he replies. “Ah, yes, Jane… Macdolas has finally… won the heart of his lady love, Ruibby.” A jolt of subject-changing inspiration strikes him.

“Has Hermione invited you to Macdolas’s thirtieth birthday party yet? We’re holding it at the Manor, on Friday, April 4. Hermione’s decided it’s to be a surprise celebration, and everyone is to come dressed in costume – to honour Macdolas’s obsession with elaborate outfits,” Draco pronounces.

“What a fabulous idea! We’d love to come. Thank you,” Jane beams. “Are you planning a big party?”

“Well, we’re going to invite all of Macdolas’s elven colleagues, plus our friends… and I’ll check with Ruibby if there’s anyone else she thinks he’d like to attend,” Hermione answers. “I’ve yet to talk to Narcissa to lock in the arrangements, but I’ll be sure to make it a priority this weekend."

“Can I come as a Muggle dentist?” Barney pipes up. “I’ll offer free dentistry for a year to the first elf who volunteers to let me have a gander at his or her teeth,” he sweetens the deal.

“NO!” Hermione and Jane yell in unison.

“Bloody spoilsports. Won’t let a man have any fun,” Barney carps in a loud whisper.

Spearing another forkful of his delicious meal, Draco merely snickers.

* * *

“Such a fantastic film – I tell you, it never gets old,” Bernard vigorously thumps the arm of the sofa for emphasis. “What say you, Draco? Got enough inspiration to draw my ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ caricature, now?”.

 _What the **fuck** did I just watch? And this… musical… is meant to be a comedy? Truly?_ Draco can only gape as Hermione moves to switch off the video. She mouths “Sorry” as she returns it to its case and slots it back onto the shelf.

“Well done, Dad: I think you broke my boyfriend; or at least, traumatized him for life,” Hermione dryly quips, sliding gently into Draco’s lap and curling around him. _Not like an alien vine,_ Draco hastens to tell himself. _Not at_ all _like that._

Kissing him tenderly, Hermione threads her fingers through his hair as she berates her father. “You do realize that Orin the dentist is the abusive, sadistic villain, correct? I worry about you sometimes, Dad.”

“Pfft. Of course I know Orin’s the bad guy – but you have to admit, he rocks the white jacket, Little Wendy. That’s exactly what I’m after – the sense of sharp style he projects. Pass the lad his sketch pad and pens, please?” Bernard wheedles, as Jane shakes her head and chuckles with fond resignation.

“Look, I don’t know if Draco’s feeling up to it–” Hermione frowns.

“I’m fine, _ma petite_. I’ll need a better light, that’s all,” Draco reassures his concerned witch.

“To the Man Cave!” Bernard hollers, causing Hermione to squeak and almost fall off Draco’s legs.

“He means his study, Draco,” Jane translates, gently pinching her spouse in retaliation for his raucous outburst.

“Ow – Jane, that was not nice!” Bernard says aggrievedly. Standing, he suddenly plucks his wife from her seat beside him, wrapping her securely into his chest and nuzzling at her neck as she shrieks and giggles. “ _Grrrrr_ … pinch me, will you? Nippy little jade – you’re coming with me!” he jounces Jane up and down as he starts walking from the living room.

Hermione covers her eyes with her palms. “Oh, geez… can we leave now? Please? They’re getting frisky, and I really don’t need to see it. Like, ever again,” she groans.

Draco grins. “But Granger – you were the one who insisted on packing my art supplies in your tiny, bloated bag… and I believe you were also the one who has staunchly defended our house elves’ right to freely fornicate in our townhouse tonight… so that’s a hard no on running away,” he decrees, lacing his hands around her waist as she squirms.

“Besides – what could possibly explain your reluctance to enter the ‘Man Cave’?” he curiously enquires.

Twisting to face him, Hermione inhales and exhales deeply before she solemnly describes the source of her unwillingness.

“Mum told me that Dad went out to a garage sale the other day… and returned as the incredibly proud owner of a new two seater couch.” She pauses for dramatic effect.

“And?”.

“Malfoy… it’s no ordinary Muggle couch. It’s the back bench seat of a Ford Cortina… with _feet_. Hand-carved, wooden feet… modelled on bare, human feet. Complete with a bedraggled, stretchy car seat cover – authentic velour, as it happens.” Hermione’s dismay is palpable.

“Mum took me in to see the monstrosity before we sat down to dinner… Draco, she had a big grin on her face… because they’ve already ‘christened’ it. They broke it in the first night it came into the house. Do you understand what I’m saying? _Do you_?” she grabs the thick folds of his cream Aran sweater and shakes him desperately.

“Don’t make me go in there – it’s too cruel!” Hermione implores.

They stare at each other in growing consternation, as more sniggers, growls, and coos emanate from the study down the hall.

“Oh, Jane – doesn’t this bring back some sublime memories!” Bernard Granger’s voice could be heard from the bottom of a well, such is his enthusiastic volume.

Draco and Hermione whimper as one.

“Granger – we can’t skedaddle now. We’d never be forgiven,” Draco grudgingly points out.

“I know,” Hermione sighs. “Dad will be devastated if you don’t finish his caricature.”

“I’m starting to empathize with Potter walking in on us all the time,” Draco discloses. “Granger – I really don’t want to see that weird couch… or your parents snogging on it.”

“Shall we pledge to Obliviate each other, once we’re safely home?” Hermione jests.

She eases off his lap and rises to her feet, twining her hand with his and shooting him a wry smile.

“Come along, my brave, splendid mage– let’s get this over with…”

“…and never speak of it again.”

Chuckling softly, Draco follows her lead.

* * *

**French translations:**

_Putain de merde!_ – Fucking hell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my dear beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5 for alerting me to the existence of 'Footy McVanseat'. She suggested it for Barney's Man Cave!  
> Here it is, for the brave of heart:  
> https://shiftythrifting.tumblr.com/post/631352635360952320/i-work-in-a-thrift-store-and-this-showed-up


	53. Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Ardentlyadmired (my apologies for the delay, I was delirious with fatigue when I posted late last night). Pride and Prejudice FOREVER! Thank you so much for all your support and encouragement. 
> 
> I'm sorry, guys: this chapter was meant to be the 'Titanic' scene... but an old flame turned up unexpectedly, and then Draco FINALLY got his act together... and here we are.
> 
> I promise that Chapter 54 will see 'Jake' and his Rose thoroughly exploring the many benefits of life drawing.
> 
> I have my fingers crossed you'll like this update... eekkk! So nervous.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support.
> 
> You have no idea how much this interactive experience has enriched my life. THANK YOU.
> 
> Much love from VJ.  
> 💗💗💗

__

_Thursday 20 March 2003: AM_

Hermione muzzily raises her head from her deliciously soft, supportive pillow as the wide mattress rocks beneath her.

Squinting in the pale morning light, she sleepily mumbles, “Malfoy? Wha’s wrong…?”. Her bleary eyes dimly perceive her boyfriend sitting cross-legged beside her, covering his face in a classic ‘Monkey See No Evil’ pose and twitching in agitation.

“Granger – don’t go downstairs. Save yourself, _ma petite_ ,” the blonde wizard dramatically whispers. He shudders as he wraps his woollen dressing gown tighter around his muscular form.

Flopping out a lethargic hand to rub at Draco’s bent leg, Hermione tries to focus on the pith of the problem. “Downstairs? Who’s there? Is Harry OK?” she struggles to rise as worry sets in.

Draco slides down the bed, pinning her gently back to horizontal and encouraging her to rest against his chest. “I’m sorry, Granger – I did not intend to disturb you. Potter’s not here – and he’s fine, as far as I know.” He huffs a deep breath. “No… this particular domestic turmoil is unique to the Townhouse of Granger-Malfoy… As if the squeaking bedsprings last night weren’t traumatic enough,” he grimly mutters.

“Stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what’s going on, please,” Hermione groans. “It’s too early for your cryptic allusions… and if you’ve been to the kitchen, why didn’t you bring us back some coffee?” she bemoans the oversight.

Kissing her forehead, Draco finally reveals the source of his angst. “I couldn’t get anywhere near the French press – not after I stumbled upon that.. that… _scene_. Granger, Ruibby stayed the night… and Macdolas is blithely trotting around the kitchen shirtless, clad only in some lurid cerise silk pyjama bottoms! Ruibby appears to be wearing that blue smoking jacket of his that Crookshanks perforated– and very little else–” he blathers.

“Oh.” Hermione is at a loss for a more insightful response.

“He’s proudly preparing her the world’s biggest breakfast, judging by the mess he’s made! That’s not even the worst of it… They’re both riddled in hickeys. What’s that Muggle disease, ‘neasels’? ‘Cheasels’? If I didn’t know better, I’d promptly diagnose the pair of them with it and shove them straight into quarantine. _Separately_ ,” Draco stresses. “I’m uncertain whether they had sex last night – or tried to eat each other.”

Hermione cannot contain her burbling laughter, despite Draco’s miffed expression. “It’s – it’s measles, Malfoy. Look, aren’t you glad they… um… had a good time? You did remind him about the Contraception Charm yesterday evening, didn’t you?”.

“After you forced me into a last pep talk, you mean?” Draco chips. “Yes, I made the horny little horrorhead repeat it thrice before I fled. Why are we surrounded by sexed-up couples all of a sudden? As if witnessing your parents flagrantly pawing at each other on that atrocity of a couch last night wasn’t enough to scar me for life – now _this_. We may have to sell up and move. No, wait – have you heard back from McGonagall yet? Tell her we’re relocating to Hogwarts, please. _Immediately_ ,” he decrees.

“Such a drama queen. Your talents are supremely wasted off the stage,” Hermione ribs, resting her chin on Draco’s sternum as she smiles into his cantankerous face. “I haven’t heard back from Minerva… she said she’d likely owl me by close of business today; she mentioned wanting to officially announce my posting at the Gala tomorrow night.’

“But I know you’re only jesting about moving to the castle permanently: we haven’t agreed on what we want to do yet. Buck up, Malfoy – Mac and Ruibby will settle down into dull old domesticity soon enough,” Hermione laughingly predicts. “Just like us, right?”.

“Oh, no… We may be domestic, but we’ll never be dull,” Draco corrects, pretending arrogant disdain as he glides his artist’s hands up and down her back. “I discover something new and wondrous about you every day, Hermione Jean Granger. You are a rare phenomenon and a blessing, and I intend to keep exploring you for as long as you’ll let me,” he solemnly pledges.

 _Forever_. Hermione’s breath catches as the word almost spills from her mouth. _No, I am far too vulnerable as it is… Draco’s ongoing reluctance to tell me he loves me is preying on my nerves._ Hermione bites her lip and tucks her head into the crook of Draco’s arm to hide her emotional fragility.

“Granger? Have I– have I said the wrong thing?”.

“No. It’s fine.” _You just haven’t said the right thing yet._ Hermione wiggles free of Draco’s hold, averting her eyes as she brightly proclaims, “Let’s present a united front downstairs with our elfish lovebirds, hmmm? And maybe organize some breakfast – and coffee – of our own?”. Swinging round her legs and sitting upright, Hermione feels Draco’s hand trail off her nude back as she rises and makes for the bathroom.

“Won’t be but a moment,” she calls over her shoulder before firmly snicking closed the door. _Don’t push him… he’s clearly proven his commitment time and again. You’re a greedy girl, Ms Granger._

Staring at her woebegone mirror image, Hermione allows herself one final heavy sigh before she bends to wash her face.

* * *

Macdolas dashes to the door of Hermione’s office as a heavy knock sounds from outside.

“Come in,” Hermione calls, as Mac tenses; her fierce fae bodyguard has been particularly energetic in his defence of her workspace this morning.

Eyeing him now, Hermione suppresses a grin at how he is channelling his seemingly never-ending jubilation at his wildly successful night of carnal ‘firsts’ with his petite blonde girlfriend. Mac’s Renaissance ‘Romeo’ outfit has definitely been chosen to reflect his newfound confidence. The laced black and blue jacket over the plain white rough linen shirt and studded black leather belt are given extra jaunty flair by Macdolas’s air of delighted complacency… and the jet-black knee-high soft suede boots are simply adorable.

“Oh look – it’s Puss in Boots,” Draco had sniped, when Macdolas had proudly waltzed out of his room, a smug Ruibby clinging to his arm. “Hurry up, Casanova – you should have escorted Ruibby back to the Manor by now,” he’d chided.

“Macdolas is not late! Macdolas sees his darlingest Ruibby home safely, then returns for Her Grace Lady Granger!” their manservant had squawked.

At Hermione’s stern glance, Draco had swiftly apologized. “Sorry – you have just enough time. Macdolas, when you return with Hermione this evening, I’d like you to immediately decamp to visit the Manor indefinitely… Hermione and I have plans tonight,” he’d instructed.

“We do?” Hermione had asked, baffled. “Have I somehow forgotten them?”.

“Not at all… I’m planning a little surprise,” Draco had revealed, one blond brow arched suggestively. “A _private_ surprise, Granger.”

Ruibby had giggled at the arrested look on Hermione’s face. “Her Grace is fortunate to have such an inventive paramour; though Ruibby is luckier,” she’d simpered, as Macdolas had leaned in to deliver a rapacious smooch.

Hermione had laughed aloud at Draco’s exaggerated groan, momentarily dispelling her lingering melancholy after the morning’s despondency. “I’ve plenty of time to get to work, Mac. Take your time – but maybe kiss Ruibby goodbye properly at the Manor… I think Draco’s had enough visual proof of your affections for one day,” she had gently suggested.

The elven couple had wasted no time in Disapparating from the townhouse, twined around each other as they’d winked out of the kitchen with a loud snap… leaving the two humans alone together.

Fidgeting at the strap of her leather work satchel, Hermione had improvised a need to procure another comb to tame her curly locks, and turned for the stairs. She’d stiffened as Draco had caught her about the waist, his breath warm against her ear.

“Hermione… is something the matter? You don’t seem yourself, _ma petite_ ,” he’d quietly remarked.

Forcing herself to relax, Hermione had casually shrugged. “I’ve a busy day at work; I suppose I’m guilty of letting my mind wander to the office already.”

A pause. “Are you certain that’s all that’s troubling you? You look… distressed.” Draco had gently rotated her within the circle of his arms, peering deeply into her shifting eyes. “Hermione? You’ve not seemed happy since you left our bed this morning.”

“I’m fine – just a little tired. Like I said, big day ahead,” Hermione had pulled away from his light hold, though her heart had screamed for her to stay. “Be right back.” She’d smiled tightly and hustled up the staircase before Draco could question her further.

Berating herself for her cowardice, Hermione had intentionally dawdled in their bedroom until she’d heard Macdolas Apparate back into the lounge room.

 _I don’t want to admit my hurt over such a trivial issue_ , she’d justified her evasive behaviours. _I know Draco loves me… I feel it, in everything he does. What did Luna say? ‘Words are cheap but deeds will keep’? She’s right (as ever)… but my silly heart yearns to hear **his** words. _

Even her goodbye kiss to Draco had lacked her usual uninhibited enthusiasm; she’d clattered into the Floo before Draco had done more than open his mouth to express his obvious perturbation.

Lost to the memories of her troubled morning, Hermione straightens in her chair as a familiar deep voice speaks her name… or a mangled Bulgarian version of it.

“Herm-own-ninny! Ve haff not seen each other for too long,” Viktor Krum appears not to notice Macdolas as he strides into the room; the indignant elf is forced to leap to the relative safety provided by her filing cabinet, lest he be bowled over altogether by the hulking ex-Seeker. Hermione stands and is immediately folded into a gentle hug.

“Viktor! I didn’t realize you were in London?” Hermione’s words are muffled against his black woollen jacket. As she disengages, she vigorously shakes her head at Macdolas, who is glowering suspiciously at her old friend from atop the metal cabinet.

“Viktor, I’d like you to meet Macdolas of the Clan Fhionnlaigh; he’s my Chief Security Advisor, and– ”

“Major-domo of the House of Granger-Malfoy,” Macdolas concludes, hitching at his heavy leather belt and reaching for the now-missing small medieval dagger (that Draco had confiscated as soon as he’d seen it). Hermione frowns as Mac covers his telling grab by pretending to adjust the belt’s prong and strap.

“Macdolas recognizes Master Viktor Dobroslav Krum, Bulgarian Seeker Extraordinaire, Goblet of Fire Participant, Durmstrang alumni… and ex-beau of Her Grace Lady Granger,” Macdolas sounds torn between vibrant admiration and loyal reprobation. The elf’s osseous hands twist as his wide mouth is caught halfway between a smile and a snarl.

“It is alvays pleasure to meet friends of Herm-own-ninny, Mister Macdolas,” Viktor offers his huge mitt to shake. Gingerly accepting, Macdolas’s expression is comically cycling between dazzled and censorious.

“The ‘House of Granger-Malfoy’?” Herm-own-ninny… you marry Draco Malfoy, already?” Viktor smiles, though his dark ochre eyes are sad. “He is very lucky wizard, to claim you as beautiful bride.”

“No – no, we’re not married, Viktor,” Hermione hastens to correct.

“ _Yet_ ,” Macdolas snips. “Her Grace Lady Granger and Master Malfoy are most happily shacked up,” he stresses, folding his arms and nodding for emphasis.

“Macdolas – please, be respectful. To me, if not to Draco,” Hermione’s neck begins to flush red as Viktor chokes back a surprised chuckle.

“Macdolas begs pardon – Macdolas does not intend affront,” his triangular ears droop.

Viktor sombrely comments, “I haff heard of your bravery, Mister Macdolas: I am forever in your debt for saving my– for saving Herm-own-ninny.” He bows formally to the surprised sprite.

Hermione interrupts before Mac can either launch into his familiar hyperbolic string of Viktor’s honorifics… or turn on him in jealous defence of Draco.

“Mac, would you mind giving us some privacy, please? Viktor will never harm me,” she assures, as Macdolas flicks a narrowed glare at her tall friend.

“Macdolas stands guard outside the door for five minutes, until Master Krum leaves,” he deigns, with an officiously haughty air that Draco himself would have trouble emulating. “Macdolas reminds Her Grace Lady Granger that the Perfectly Presented Mistress Pansy Parkinson arrives shortly for their luncheon appointment,” he hops down from the cabinet and struts to the door, closing it behind him with a sharp crack.

“Sorry – he’s very protective of me,” Hermione sighs, resting her hip against the edge of her battered desk. “Mac’s really quite sweet… He’s been much nicer to you than he was to Ron,” she weakly smiles.

Viktor shrugs his massive shoulders, smirking genially. “I vonder to myself when I read newspaper article: how does Ronald Veasley feel about letting Herm-own-ninny slip through his fingers? Ronald does not know vot he has until he loses it, I think.”

 _Time for a subject change – **stat**._ Ignoring her renewed blush, Hermione asks, “ Are you in town on business, Viktor? I’ve been following your company’s successes in the business papers – you’re doing very well for yourself,” she refers to Viktor’s slowly-expanding enterprise of specialized Quidditch training camps and professional coaching facilities.

Viktor pinkens at her praise, shyly ducking his head. “Thank you, Herm-own-ninny. Business is steady. Is not the same as playing, but this ageing body is glad for less aches and pains ven I awaken.”

“Ageing? Viktor, you’re only three years older than I!” Hermione scoffs, grinning.

“Vell, I do not miss bruises and bone breaks from Bludgers and Beaters,” Viktor admits. He scans her from head to toe. “You are vell, Herm-own-ninny? You are more beautiful than I remember… but I vorry terribly ven I read of this recent attack… if you need help, I am here for you. Alvays,” he shifts from genial to savage in a heartbeat, hands clubbed into tight fists.

Laying her hand lightly atop Viktor’s bunched, thick forearm, Hermione assuages his concerns. “That means a lot to me… thank you, Viktor. Please don’t worry – between Draco and Macdolas, I am more stringently guarded than the Crown Jewels,” she wryly reveals.

Viktor relaxes his tense stance somewhat. “He is good to you – Draco Malfoy? He treats you as his queen?” he hesitantly enquires.

“Yes… Yes, Draco is– well, he’s everything to me. He’s my… he’s my heart– he has my heart,” Hermione stumbles over expressing her innermost feelings, tears involuntarily welling. _I need to remember that… instead of obsessing over foolish, stereotypical expectations of romance._ She makes a conscious effort to brighten her expression.

“Viktor, will you be attending the Spring Equinox Ball tomorrow night? I’d offer to have dinner with you this evening, but I– we – have other plans.” _Apparently_.

Nodding, Viktor smiles gently. “Yes – I haff been asked to give small speech about fostering better business relations between our countries. Mr Zabini invites me to sit at his table: may I ask for one dance with you, Herm-own-ninny? If your– if Draco Malfoy does not mind me stealing away his lady, for one – vot is the word?... ah, _nostalgic_ waltz.”

“Of course – and never mind Draco. He’s doesn’t control me,” Hermione spiritedly declares. “I look forward to it.”

“Good. And now, I must away… lest your fierce little _kuche pazach_ – guard dog – show his teeth.” Viktor cranes his head, softly kissing Hermione on both cheeks, before raising her knuckles to his lips for a final salutation. “I alvays know you are not meant for me, Herm-own-ninny: I only vish to see you happy. Be joyful, _skŭpa_.”

 _Damn – he’s still heartbreakingly sweet_. Hermione affectionately squeezes his hands in wordless response, before he turns to leave.

The door opens just as Viktor reaches it: Macdolas pompously announces, “Master Seeker Krum departs as The Professionally Prosperous Mistress Pansy Parkinson enters!”. Pansy stands behind him, eyes widening as she notes Viktor’s presence.

“Hello, Viktor. Are we still on for that meeting with Blaise at three o’clock?”. Even with her two inch stilettos, Pansy has to stretch to accept Viktor’s buss on both cheeks.

“Of course, Miss Pansy. I vill be there,” Viktor asserts. “I hope I do not insult by saying you are pretty as a picture… You haff special bloom today?” he cocks his head as he smiles down into Pansy’s glowing face.

Hermione watches on, intrigued by Pansy’s unusually flustered disposition as she flaps her hands at the compliment.

“Go on with you, Tall, Dark and Durmstrang,” Pansy deflects. “Unless you want to join us for lunch?” she looks to Hermione for confirmation of her impulsive invitation.

“I thank you, but I leave you lovely ladies alone for now,” Viktor demurs. “Enjoy your luncheon. Goodbye, Mister Macdolas,” he bows, before pivoting to walk away with his renowned athletic grace.

Hermione turns her attention to her Slytherin pal: Pansy yet appears a tad hectic. “Pansy? Are you OK? You look… weird,” Hermione observes.

“Pfft – I look fabulous, as ever,” Pansy needlessly yanks at her slate-grey jacket and smooths a miniscule crease from the matching suit trousers. “You heard Viktor – ‘pretty as a picture’” she winks, stepping back to take in Hermione’s appearance.

“You’re the one who seems odd today, Pollyanna. Did something happen between you and your Bulgarian buddy?” Pansy wonders.

“What? No – Viktor just dropped by to say hello, and check on my well-being,” Hermione explains.

“Have you quarrelled with Draco, then?” Pansy probes.

“No!” Hermione denies, a trifle hotly. She exhales in relief when she spies an anomaly on Pansy’s immaculate presentation.

“What’s this, Miss Pretty as a Picture?” Hermione leans forward, triumphantly plucking a short, wavy black hair off the lapel of Pansy’s dark emerald satin blouse.

“That’s – that’s my hair – I just combed it,” Pansy fibs, snatching at the lone strand.

“Yeah, no…” Hermione chuckles as the other woman makes a series of failed, desperate grabs for the tell-tale tress. “Your hair is much longer: and besides, I’ve cut this black mop before. This is Harry’s hair,” she confidently professes.

Witnessing Pansy blanch, then crimson, is both amusing and alarming. Hermione takes pity on her, wrapping a friendly arm around Pansy’s shoulder as she steers them toward the elevator bank.

“Are you coming with us, Mac? To enjoy some hot food, and gentle prying into Harry and Pansy’s ‘friendship’?” Hermione sniggers as Mac reaches for Pansy’s hand and swings it back and forth whilst trotting alongside her.

The house elf/bodyguard makes her laugh again as he sheepishly wheedles, “Would The Patently Pulchritudinous Miss Pansy Parkinson please petition Master Viktor Dobroslav Krum for his autograph, during their afternoon meeting? Macdolas believes his sweet Ruibby to be an avid fan.”

“Bullshit,” mutters a disgruntled Pansy. “It’s just as well you’re cute, you little suck-up.”

* * *

_Thursday 20 March 2003: PM_

_Whomever called them ‘butterflies’ in the stomach was a moron – they’re much more like baby spiders… Hatchling baby spiders, spilling from their tiny soft eggs and winnowing through my unhappy intestines in an entirely revolting fashion._

Draco is glad he skipped lunch when his gorge rises. _Stop thinking of spiders… You certainly don’t need to remember that hideous mutant Aragog that Hagrid worshipped. Stop! Think of something else… practise what you intend to say to Hermione, again. Slower, this time._

Sucking in a deep breath, Draco’s head snaps about as the Floo activates. He nearly trips over his own stupid feet as he rushes toward it.

Hermione has just cleared the marble mantle when Draco sweeps her into his strong arms. He buries his face in her rose-and-lavender fragranced curls as she emits a startled ‘Eep’.

“Malfoy? Has something happened?” Hermione pushes at his chest, worry sharpening her clear tones. She briskly lays her palm flat against his forehead: checking for a fever, Draco supposes.

“No, no – I’m quite well. Do not worry, _ma petite_ ,” he hums softly. Turning his head, he addresses their bustling seneschal.

“Macdolas – you may leave. Go, visit Ruibby, stay at the Manor for as long as you can tonight,” Draco urgently instructs. “Go on – piss off already,” he barks, as Macdolas merely blinks sceptically.

“Hey – why are you picking on Mac?” Hermione berates. “That was not nice, Draco.”

“Sorry, sorry… Macdolas, I’d be much obliged if you’d see your way clear to granting Hermione and I our privacy, please,” Draco amends, as Hermione’s tense expression eases.

The manservant taps his foot and exaggeratedly rubs his elongated fingers together in the well-known gesture of requesting payment; his sly manoeuvre is hidden from Hermione, who has her back to the elf.

 _Extortionate, opportunistic little turd!_ Draco peels back his lips in a grimace, reluctantly nodding his agreement to the unsubtle bribe as he mouths, “Beat it!”.

“Macdolas wishes his most gracious, generous employers an excellent evening! _Bonne soirée!_ ” he Disapparates, his wicked grin stretched from ear to jumbo ear.

Drawing away from Hermione, Draco battles to keep his jumping nerves in check. He slips her black leather work satchel off her shoulder and lays it down on the coffee table before he speaks.

“Hermione… would you please sit down? I have something I wish to tell you,” Draco begins, his heather eyes tangling with her puzzled cocoa gaze. “It’s not bad news… well, it’s not news, per se… it’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss– meaning to say, that is– for an age–”

“Malfoy. I’m listening. Your uncharacteristic vacillation is not helping to calm my jitters, though,” Hermione mordaciously comments. She sits primly at the far edge of the light blue couch, crossing her ankles and holding her hands in her lap as she awaits Draco’s reply. Her stiff spine and the near-imperceptible tight lines around her closed mouth betray her apprehension.

“Hermione: please don’t be anxious. I know you were upset this morning, and I finally figured out why… I should have said this weeks ago, I’m sorry. Anyway– I promise you, this is not a difficult conversation– well, not for you, it’s hard for me– not hard, I shouldn’t say hard, it’s more, um, challenging… no, not a challenge, more like a–a process–”

“For fuck’s sake! You’re killing me! What on earth has gotten into you, Draco?” Hermione growls. “I’m sorry – but honestly, Malfoy, you are seriously starting to get on my wick with your silly dithering. Are you breaking up with me?” she demands, rising to her feet and balling her small hands into angry fists.

“What?!? Of course not! Why would you even consider–”

“Are you cheating on me?”

“No! How can you think–”

“Are you secretly engaged to another? Are you terminally ill? Do you have a sexually transmitted disease? Have you gotten another witch pregnant?” Hermione mercilessly thunders on, windmilling her arms in wild, frustrated gesticulations.

“NO! To all of that – bloody hell, what a wretched litany of prospective sins! Dammit, will you just sit down and listen?!? I AM TRYING TO TELL YOU I AM MADLY, HOPELESSLY, INFINITELY IN LOVE WITH YOU, HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER!!!” Draco shouts out his Grand Confession with all the finesse of a raucous dockworker.

 _Well… fuck. That… did not proceed as I’d hoped._ Draco cringes as his hollered declaration seems to echo endlessly in his red-tipped ears. Hermione flumps back down onto the sofa as though she’s been whacked with a broom. He hurries to her side as her breathing grows ragged.

“Hermione – are you OK? _Ma petite, mon amour_ – I am sorry, I did not mean to blurt that out in such a crude fashion… I have been practising my speech most of the day – I am such a daft prat!”. He feels like mimicking Macdolas’s now-retired habit of whacking himself in his idiot noggin.

“Say it. Your speech. Your planned speech. Please,” Hermione is staring at him with huge, amazed, whiskey-brown eyes.

Draco forces his frozen feet to shuffle closer, sitting sideways beside his beloved sorceress. He gently gathers her chilled hands to nest them within his own clammy ones, chafing them solicitously.

“I couldn’t decide whether I should lead with English or French – I ended up going with pidgin Buffoon, as it turned out,” he weakly jokes, smiling more freely as Hermione’s mouth twists restively.

“English, to start with – I don’t want to miss any nuance,” she commands, with the singular bossiness that Draco simply adores.

“Well… here goes everything.” Draco delves deep into his floundering reserves of courage and ignores his squalling vulnerability as he finally tells Hermione what his heart has known for years.

“I love you, Hermione. I love you, and I am in love with you… and I will love you forever. You have held my stupid heart in your capable little hands since the day I first met you… since you barged into my train carriage looking for Neville Longbottom’s runaway toad–”

“–Trevor,” Hermione appends, folding in her lips to repress her mirth at Draco’s mild exasperation.

“Why would anyone call a toad ‘Trevor’?” Draco gripes. “I digress: Granger – would you mind refraining from interrupting me with amphibious trivia while I’m pouring out my fragile heart, please?” he sighs.

“Of course. Carry on,” Hermione is openly giggling now, her eyes bright and sheeny.

“Where was I? Oh, explaining how my snooty pre-pubescent self took one look at a toad-hunting, brilliant little witch and fell for her like a ton of bricks. When I realized you were Muggle-born… well, I was devastated. I knew my father would likely disown me for entertaining any thought of you, even in passing.” Draco swallows hard.

“And then – Voldemort. Becoming a Death Eater… all my wicked, dangerous deeds in Sixth Year… Dumbledore’s murder.” His throat tightens his next attempted words to a wheeze.

Trying again, Draco husks, “Then… that awful night you were captured and brought to the Manor – and Aunt Bellatrix tortured you – gods, I’m so sorry, Hermione. After all that – I knew I never stood a chance with you… not that I ever did.”

Shaking her head strenuously, Hermione objects, “Draco, you did everything possible to protect me – you refused to identify Harry, Ron and me – you saved us, Draco. And I know now that you used your Occlumency to shield me… please, let go of your guilt. Please,” Hermione beseeches.

Draco grips her hands a little tighter, awed (as ever) by her sweet, generous heart.

“Hermione… I know I don’t deserve you. You are a dream come true – _my dream_. I worship you, _ma petite_. I don’t mean that I put you on a pedestal and idolize an idealized version of ‘the perfect woman’: you are flesh and blood, and we don’t always agree, and sometimes you need a little space and I need a little reminder that you’re always right–”

He smiles as she hiccoughs an amused laugh. “But I want you to know that you are my soul mate. I love you with every atom of my being. Will you… will you let me love you, Hermione? And accept my deepest apologies for not telling you sooner?”. 

Draco isn’t aware he is holding his erratic breath until faded grey spots dance across his vision.

“Breathe, Draco… I’ve heard that kissing an insentient wizard is markedly inferior to smooching a conscious one,” Hermione whispers, tracing his lips with the tip of her forefinger. A tear rolls down her nose as she leans closer; Draco uses his left thumb to wipe it away, as she gulps.

“Please don’t cry, Hermione – I never wish to make you unhappy. If this is all too much, I promise I shan’t pressure you further…”

“Oh, Draco – my lovable goose! I’m crying because I’m so damned happy, you silly wizard!” Hermione sobs, launching herself at him like a torpedo and toppling him back onto the couch. She crawls atop him immediately, peppering his face and neck with dozens of effervescent little kisses. Draco does his best to return her caresses, feeling his heart swell and flutter like an overinflated balloon. They inevitably bump noses and teeth, finesse lost to eager joy as they giggle and sigh.

Hermione pauses just before Draco can capture her pecking mouth properly; she sits back on her heels, catching his hands to yank him half-upright. Her mien is elated, yet serious.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy – I love you. Body and soul, heart and mind. You are my one true love, and I am so in love with you… sometimes I fear I’m dreaming you – dreaming our life together,” she imparts, using their conjoined hands to knuckle away a few more stray tears.

Beaming down at him, Hermione divulges, “I’ve always been attracted to you – though I wouldn’t admit it, not for a long time – and now… well, now I am wholly, irrevocably, rapturously in love with you. ‘I never wish to be parted from you from this day on’.”

“Hey – that’s my line!" Draco protests. “Darcy says that, not Elizabeth!”.

“Shush – I left you the preceding quotation, didn’t I?” Hermione allows.

Voice cracking only slightly, Draco recites, “I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you. I love you, Hermione Jean Granger.”

"’You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you’… my Draco." A luxuriant sienna curl escapes her ponytail to brush against Draco’s cheek, soft as an eider feather.

“Again – _my_ line,” Draco grouches. “I only forgive you your impudence and outrageous theft because you’re the love of my life… my Hermione.” Keeping hold of her left hand, he stretches to cup her neck and draw her back down atop him.

“Kiss me, _ma petite_ … _ma chérie_. _Embrasse moi, mon âme sœur… mon ange_ ,” Draco entreats, pouting as Hermione resists his seeking lips.

“Not yet, _mon amour_ – I’m still waiting to hear the French version of your tardy love avowal,” Hermione wags her finger in mock-admonishment. “Hmmm?”.

“Prepare to swoon at my unrivalled, expert ‘Frenchery’, my beautiful, miraculous, demanding little lioness,” Draco brags, propping himself against the side arm of the sofa and pulling Hermione flush against him. There is just enough space between their heads to maintain eye contact.

“ _Je t’aime; Je suis amoureux de toi_ … I love you; I am in love with you.” Draco fervidly explores Hermione’s mouth, his tongue sweeping across her bottom lip and briefly furling with hers.

“ _Je t’aime passionnément; Je t’aime à la folie_ … I love you passionately; I love you like crazy.” He grazes her top lip delicately between his teeth, revelling in her stuttered breaths puffing against his mouth.

“ _Je t’aime avec toute mon âme; Je t'aimerai toujours_ … I love you with all of my soul; I will love you forever.” Hunger turns his next kiss into a possessive claiming, both their mouths open and slanting, changing angles and taking turns to advance and retreat.

“Draco – that’s enough French exposition and tutelage for now, I think,” Hermione whimpers as his hands rove from her hips to her neck, lingering to cup her firm breasts through her simple lilac shift dress.

“Indulge me with a final request, Granger: _Laisse-moi te montrer à quel point je t’aime_ …”

“No – let me show _you_ how much I love you,” Hermione ripostes. “My French is improving, wouldn’t you agree?”.

“I’d have to set some tests before I could grade you properly, _ma petite_ … I find practical examinations are the best marker of a student’s progress, _non_?” Draco licks his lips lasciviously.

“Extra points for an… oral presentation?” Hermione leers, chortling at Draco’s momentarily shocked reaction.

He rapidly recovers his poise. “Of course.” Draco’s fingers seek the top of the zipper running along Hermione’s spine; he stops abruptly before he can slide down the tab.

“Hermione – wait. We have yet to explore my surprise… activity this evening,” Draco murmurs, smiling at the aggrieved look she shoots him.

“What – is it better than enthusiastically celebrating our freshly-declared, thoroughly requited, mutual love right here on the couch?” Hermione grouses, scrabbling her fingers at the buttons of his rough-hewn ecru cotton shirt.

Wriggling free, Draco nods emphatically. “Satisfaction awaits in the upstairs studio… for both your curiosity, and your raging lust for me,” he pronounces, po-faced. “Besides… do you truly wish to imitate your parents’ predilection for ‘getting frisky’ on sofas?” he alludes to the Grangers’ shenanigans on Barney’s hideous new piece of furniture the night before.

“Ugh – fair point,” Hermione shudders, stilling her scrambling hands. “What kind of surprise? Oh, and if anyone’s lust is raging – it’s yours, _mon beau_.”

Draco stands, swinging Hermione into his arms before she has a chance to argue against his bold move. “Your keen senses seem to have missed the significance of my current outfit, _ma trésor_. Does it not remind you of another blond artist…?” he prompts, waggling his brows.

Hermione’s knitted forehead clears within milliseconds. “Jack and Rose – ‘draw me like one of your French girls’!” she guesses, squealing gleefully.

Managing not to visibly wince at the shrill outburst, Draco confirms, “Exactly. But Hermione… call me Jake tonight, hmmm?”

Laughing blithely, Hermione kisses his ear and whispers, “I love you so much, Jake Malloy.”

“I love you more, Hermione Granger… _Toujours_.”

Draco pauses on the landing, unable to resist bestowing a trembling kiss on his sweet Hermione’s ripe mouth, determined to imbue it with all the love, longing, desire, and soulful passion he has long harboured for the beautiful witch in his arms… _my glorious, unique, spectacular Hermione._

**_Tu es la femme de mes rêves, ma petite._ **

**_You are the man of_ my _dreams, mon coeur._**

* * *

The quoted lines bandied back and forth between Hermione and Draco are from ‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen.

* * *

**Bulgarian translation:**

_Skŭpa [скъпа]_ – dear one

**French translations:**

_Bonne soirée -_ Good evening.

 _Embrasse moi, mon âme sœur … mon ange –_ Kiss me, my soulmate… my angel.

 _Mon beau_ – My beautiful one.

 _Toujours_ – Always.

 _Tu es la femme de mes rêves, ma petite_ – You are the woman of my dreams, my little one.

* * *

Bonus content: Chapter 4 of [Harry's Apology: Swoon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892955/chapters/66221653)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special mention to @Samwiches for inspiring the haunting images of spiders that have replaced butterflies in Draco's nervous belly in this chapter; I am a lifelong arachnophobe, and her own gruesome depictions of giant spiders are embedded in my brain...


	54. Titanic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Sri1997 and @Recoveringjaddict5. Thank you for your support.
> 
> I've been itching to write this scene for ages (ever since Draco's career reveal).  
> I hope it makes sense and pays some small tribute to the magic of the drawing scene in 'Titanic'.
> 
> Thank you very much to all my readers for your wonderful participation, whether it be silently reading, leaving kudos, commenting, and supporting this story on social media. I appreciate each and every one of you so much. You guys really power this fic to keep rolling, and I am incredibly grateful to you all. 
> 
> Much love, and I hope you like the chapter. Next up: The Ball Begins!!!
> 
> 💗😍💗😍💗 VJ

__

_Thursday 20 March 2003: PM_

Hermione feels as giddy as a spring lamb as Draco sets her down just inside the doorway of his third-floor studio; he appears just as exhilarated, jubilant, and nervous as she, as his hands twitch at her sides.

“Hermione… Rose, I mean: do you want me to call you ‘Rose’?”

Creasing her forehead thoughtfully, Hermione shakes her head. “No… I think I’d prefer to hear my Christian name exclusively on your lips, tonight. It always gives me such a thrill,” she purrs. “I _would_ like to call you Jake, though; it fulfils my fantasy of being the rich heiress taking pity on your ‘starving Bohemian artist’,” she winks.

“’Born in a cellar and living in a garret’,” Draco quotes, arching an eyebrow. “I look forward to your benevolent largesse, my dear patroness,” he bows, doffing an imaginary hat and looking boyishly cheeky.

“Now, I have a few small gifts for you– I hope– I hope you like them,” Draco stammers, his glance flickering to the high bench running along one wall that houses a raft of art supplies and equipment. “Just – wait here while I fetch them, OK?” He hurries off without waiting for her response.

“Why don’t you just Accio them over, Draco?” Hermione calls, smiling to herself as she watches Draco half-trip over the leg of an easel and then send a roll of canvas crashing to the floor.

“ _Merde_! Sorry, sorry – I got it –” he rights the heavy fabric cylinder, turning to snatch up a ribbon-wrapped parcel and a glossy cherrywood box, before dashing back to where she waits. “Jack Dawson – Jake Malloy, I mean – is a Muggle, right? No magic tonight, beyond what we create together,” Draco replies.

“Well, there’s a popular theory that Jack is actually a time traveller, and he didn’t perish in the cruel Atlantic after all… it does make sense, considering that more than one of the places he tells Rose about didn’t exist in 1912–”

“ _Ma petite_ , as much as I adore your sharp brain, may I respectfully request that you enlighten me about ‘Time Traveller Jack’ some other time?” Draco gently requests.

 _He needn’t think I didn’t catch his tiny eye roll_. Hermione’s joy at their recent mutual testimonies of undying love cancel out any irritation at Draco’s gesture of long-suffering indulgence to her quirks.

“Well, I _am_ going to be a Hogwarts Professor of Arithmancy in the very near future, you know,” Hermione imparts, trying not to look like the cat that got the cream and consumed the canary. “Minerva Floo-called me before we left work; I’m to start Monday week.”

“Oh, Hermione – that’s wonderful news! I’m so proud of you!” Draco gathers her in a clumsy hug, his hands still occupied with her presents. “Not that I ever doubted for a moment that the job was yours – McGonagall’s no fool. You’re going to be running that establishment before you’re thirty: you mark my words,” he confidently predicts.

“Ha! Unlikely. Minerva is doing a stellar job, and she has no plans to retire, as far as I know,” Hermione deflects, blushing at her boyfriend’s unswerving conviction in her abilities. “But we can discuss all that a little later: I am itching to know what you have for me,” she nods to the boxes. “Pleeeeease?”.

Holding out his gifts, Draco shyly directs, “Open the bigger one first… I tried to find one as near to the original as possible. Pansy outdid herself in sourcing it for me, as usual. If you don’t care for it, you needn’t wear it, of course,” he witters.

Hermione holds up an imperious finger as she carefully brushes aside the last layer of protective tissue and reverently pulls out the diaphanous chiffon midnight-black peignoir. The golden speckles of the repeated horizontal comma-shaped pattern decorating the floor-length sleeves glimmer in the well-lit room.

“The sleeves aren’t terribly practical… I suspect this garment is not meant to be worn for long before being deliberately divested,” Draco seems compelled to provide a running commentary, as Hermione marvels at the sublime quality and workmanship of the sheer robe.

“Obviously, you can wear your otter kimono instead, if you prefer– I mean, no one’s going to deduct points for authenticity of apparel– that fashion-obsessed twerp Macdolas is nowhere in sight, thank Salazar –”

“Dra- Jake,” Hermione corrects, stepping forward to lightly notch his warm lower lip with her index fingertip, “This is bona fide, beautiful, and absolutely perfect. Thank you, my love.” She glories in his pupils dilating at her use of the endearment.

“You– you like it?”.

“ _Mon cœur_ … I cherish it. _Merci beaucoup_ ,” Hermione samples his parted mouth with her own, relishing his involuntary gasp of pleasure at the soft touch.

Drawing away before she succumbs to her burning desire to snog him silly, Hermione tips her chin to the cherrywood box in Draco’s right hand. “Is that for me, too?” she prompts.

“Uh, yes. This is the closest I could get to– to the one in the film.” Draco scratches at his ear as he explains, “It’s a Malfoy heirloom – don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe, I spent a goodly part of my day… erm, cleansing it, and running spell checks. I hope you’ll accept it permanently… as a token of my eternal– eternal devotion.”

He fiddles at the gold clasp at the front of the case, flicking it up and down in an agitated manner that would be aggravating, were it not rather adorable. Hermione takes the box away from her jumpy lover before he succeeds in breaking the closure.

Uncertain whether she’s relieved or disappointed that the box is too large to contain a ring, Hermione inhales a calming breath before raising the lid.

The black velvet-lined receptacle holds the most majestic necklace Hermione has ever seen; she gasps as she moves her head and the strong overhead lamplight hits the jewellery full-force. It is a huge heart-shaped emerald, bordered by perfectly matched diamonds, strung on a heavy silver chain. Feeling like Cinderella, Hermione moves to stroke the multi-faceted surface of the gem, but pulls her fingers away before she makes actual contact.

“Pick it up – it won’t bite, I promise,” Draco urges. “It’s not as large as the ‘Heart of the Ocean’ – and that’s a platinum necklace, not silver – but I hope it will suffice.”

 _Suffice?_ Hermione has little doubt the superb jewel could fund a small nation for the better part of a year. _And Draco just said he’s gifting it to me… permanently. Blimey._

“It’s– it’s spectacular. I don’t– I can’t– it’s clearly meant for your family… I wouldn’t feel right– wait, that’s what you meant, by ‘cleansing’, isn’t it? This piece is enspelled to repel Muggle-borns,” Hermione splutters, letting the lid fall closed on the dazzling, expensive, _cursed_ bauble.

Huffing in frustration, Draco thrusts the case back into her hands. “You _are_ my family, my darling ninny – and do you truly think I would allow any harm to befall you?! I will be crushed if you refuse to accept this small trinket of my sincere regard,” he stiffly reverts to his snootiest tones.

_Hell’s bells – I’ve offended him. I’m simply unused to receiving wildly expensive jewellery; the closest Ron came to it was offhandedly slinging a candy bracelet my way on Valentine’s Day._

“I apologize... I never meant to imply you would endanger me – I simply feel overwhelmed by your generosity. And maybe a little scared that the ingrained Pureblood propensities of the Malfoy line may yet override your doubtlessly superior curse-breaking skills,” Hermione says, with a weak grimace.

“Weren’t you extolling my many talents and unsurpassed brilliance, just yesterday? Trust me, Granger – I know what I’m about,” Draco arrogantly proclaims, his mood uplifted. “I’ve been perfecting anti-curse spellwork since I was old enough to read.”

“I never said ‘unsurpassed’,” Hermione mutters, unable to repress her grin at his cockiness. “But I accept your amazing gift with faith and gratitude. Thank you, _mon chéri_.”

Her heartbeat skitters as she bashfully queries, “Would you mind leaving the room while I get changed, please? If – if you’re ready to begin, that is.” Hermione wedges the jewellery case under one arm and bundles the filmy wrapper more securely in her hands.

“No need – I have arranged a screen for your convenience.” Draco steers her toward the antique wooden three-panel screen in the far corner of his workspace; the warmth of his strong, pale hand at the small of her back sends prickles of eager awareness dance along her skin.

“You’ve thought of everything, hmmm? I’m a very lucky witch,” Hermione remarks, striving to offset her heightened excitement. _Why am I so nervous? It’s not like this is our first time._

 _It will be our first joining since we expressed the true depths of our feelings, though. Arrgh._ Not for the first time, Hermione wishes her inner monologue would simmer down instead of relentlessly pointing out glaring truisms.

“Do shut up,” she grumbles beneath her breath.

“I beg your pardon?” Draco stands beside the screen, mild amusement on his handsome face as he hears her self-chastisement. “Don’t worry, my sweet lioness… this is going to be delightful. And ‘twas your idea, remember?”.

“Yeah, yeah, off with you then,” Hermione flaps her hand in mock-irritation.

“Oh – one last thing,” Draco retrieves a palm-sized velvet pouch hanging from one of the painted screen’s pillars. “Wear this in your lovely hair tonight, please.”

He tips out an antique replica of the butterfly tortoiseshell comb worn by Rose in the scene they are about to duplicate. The matte green of the oval cabochon in the centre of the insect’s back is picked out in the découpaged stained-glass effect of the enamelled yellow, black, and green wing sectors.

Hermione harbours no qualms about running her fingers over the long, smooth teeth and textured embellishments. “You spoil me dreadfully, Jake,” she smiles, as her eyes involuntarily mist.

“Hardly,” he shrugs. “You deserve everything your heart desires, _mon amour_.”

 _Just you – you’re all I really want._ Hermione shoos away Draco and dabs at her moist eyes before she begins to undress.

* * *

Draco drags the upholstered Edwardian camelback sofa (decorated in muted yellows, blues, and greens) into position, attempting to minimize the screech of its wooden feet on the polished floorboards as he muscles it into the optimum spot. Stepping back, he critically judges its final setting, covertly blotting his clammy hands on the thighs of his tan corduroy trousers. The workingman’s suspenders hang loose by his sides; Draco straightens the collarless bib neck of his cream cotton broadcloth shirt, and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. The quick glimpse of his loathsome Dark Mark barely dents his ebullient mood.

He chances a glance at the wooden room divider; Hermione’s clothing is carefully folded over the middle panel, her lilac dress contrasting with the deep purple woven silk that covers three quarters of the screen.

 _She must be putting the finishing touches to her hair._ Fussing at the small worktable and plain wooden chair he’d earlier arranged opposite the borrowed couch, Draco sits in the chair, opening his canvas pencil kit to sharpen the tools of his trade yet again. He crosses one leg over his knee and balances his open sketchpad atop it.

A soft “ahem” alerts him to Hermione’s presence. Looking up, Draco nearly slices off his thumb with the pencil knife as he takes full stock of her appearance.

Hermione is an utter vision… from the crown of her russet head to the tips of the little pink toes that peek out beneath the long hem of her gauzy black robe. She twirls the gold-tasselled end of the matching sash with flair, winking at him for good measure as Draco drinks in his fantasy made flesh.

Moving toward the camelback couch, she makes a production of inspecting the tableau he has arranged, noting the standing lamps that flank the furniture, and the way Draco has dimmed the overhead lights to create a mellow ambience.

“Don’t artists need good light?” she challenges, with a delicious tip of her pert nose.

“Zat is true, but I am not used to working in such ‘orrible conditions,” Draco answers in an exaggerated French accent, somehow dragging his hot silver eyes away from her gloriously semi-revealed curves and angles, as he remembers his line.

Stepping closer, Hermione’s free hand delicately parts the collar of the negligee, exposing the glittering bevelled emerald and diamond heart-shaped pendant.

“Jake, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls… wearing this,” she caresses the necklace.

“Alright,” Draco readily accedes.

“…and _only_ this,” she concludes, as he gazes at her in unfeigned captivation. “The last thing I need is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll.”

Smirking, Hermione strolls to stand in front of him, holding out a bronze Knut to drop in his palm.

“As a paying customer – I expect to get what I want.” Backing up two paces, Hermione keeps her cocoa eyes focused on his as she languidly curls her fingers around the peignoir’s narrow lapels and lets it slither off her nude body to pool at her bare feet.

 _Don’t ogle – you are a professional artist. You’ve drawn plenty of naked models before,_ Draco sternly reminds himself, as his breathing and pulse quicken instantaneously. _Be cool._

“Over on the bed– um, the couch,” he gulps, motioning jerkily at the camelback sofa. Hermione’s low chuckle at his Freudian slip does little to calm his skyrocketing libido. He wriggles in his chair and stiffens his spine as she obeys his instruction, perching on the edge of the seat.

“Come – lie down,” Draco guides, trying to keep his attention centred on her beautiful face.

Laying her head against the padded side of the couch, Hermione is at a loss as to what to do with her hands; she flails them around her head a few times, looking uncertain. Her left arm settles on the high camelback, only to slide off as she shifts uncomfortably.

“Can you– tell me when it looks right– ”

“Yeah – keep that pose – put your arm back where it was,” Draco interrupts, as Hermione dutifully complies.

“Put that other arm up… and there, your hand right by your face, there,” Draco relaxes his drawn brows as Hermione curls her fingers. He starts to shuck his rampant nerves as his training takes over.

“Right… now, head down, eyes to me –” he forks two fingers at his own orbs – “keep them on me.” Unnecessarily rotating his sketch pad, Draco takes a brief moment to clinically assess Hermione’s pose.

_‘Clinically’… hah. I am hard-pressed to not leap from my chair and fall upon her like a hungry wolf. Sweet Circe… her high, plump breasts… her sweetly-flared hips… the pure line of her legs… the triangle of chestnut curls at the apex of her shapely thighs– her eyes, her splendid eyes–_

“Try to– stay still,” Draco falters, entranced by the unconsciously seductive way Hermione licks her lips and clears her throat. Her shining mocha gaze returns to his face as he warns himself to regain his famed self-control.

Puffing out a calming exhale, Draco eases his death grip on his pencil and studies his beautiful witch one more time; he knows that he will carry this image of his beloved Hermione in his head and heart until he draws his last breath.

A few practice strokes above the thick paper; he chooses to begin with the lateral projection of her hip and torso, allowing his professional training to take over. Cocking his head to the right, he ignores the scattered strands of platinum hair that fall across his forehead, flicking his intense regard back to Hermione’s exquisitely naked body every few moments.

“So serious,” Hermione twits, pouting her pretty lips in a wonderfully distracting manner; Draco half-smiles at her naughty antics as he sketches in the outline of her furled hand and head, his hair flopping down once more. He quickly moves to draw her comely face and luxuriant hair; her slender arms; then the scintillating verdant pendant, his confidence growing with each assured stroke.

Her breasts, next: Draco takes great care to perfectly replicate the rounded swells, using his fingertips to blend the pencil marks as he contours the underside of each sublime globe.

Of course, Hermione notices his bitten lip, tucked-in mouth, and creeping flush.

She gently teases, “I believe you are blushing, Mr Big Artiste… I can’t imagine Mr Monet blushing?”.

Draco retorts, “He does _landscapes_ … Just relax your face–’

“Sorry,” she licks her lips again and exhales, easing back into the pose.

“No laughing,” he rebukes, as Hermione’s mirth briefly bubbles aloud. He continues to shade in her breasts and navel, moving back to the texture of her hair and face as she looks at him with undisguised tenderness… and effervescent, profound love.

 _Love. Hermione loves me. She loves **me**._ Draco must put aside his rapture when his trembling fingers threaten to derail the entire proceedings.

 _Concentrate_. He assiduously disregards his thumping heartbeat and heated blood, determined to capture every last, divine detail of the magnificent woman lying but a few feet away. His fingers seem to move of their own accord as he soaks her in on an entirely different level of consciousness. Draco senses her magic softly seeking out his own as the air around them crackles; he welcomes her sorcerous ingress.

The only sound in the room is their erratic respiration, and the faint scratch of Draco’s pencil as it glides across the paper. He is aware that Hermione has yet to take her brilliant eyes from him, as he awkwardly adjusts his posture. The thrumming of his manhood is clamouring to be noticed and actioned; Draco is aching to toss his sketch pad aside and join his Hermione on the old-fashioned couch.

Finally, his left hand stills its busy detailing and blending. Draco checks his work, quietly thrilled at the likeness he has produced. The drawing has unerringly captured Hermione’s beauty and grace, but what Draco is most proud of is the expression in her stunning eyes… intelligence, happiness, desire… and unequivocable love. The physical proof of her deep affection staring at him from the pad on his lap fills Draco with boundless euphoria; and an overwhelming need to show his wondrous woman exactly how much he treasures her.

Wordlessly, he rises to lay down his pencil and sketchbook onto the adjacent table. Three strides, and he is kneeling beside Hermione, his hands glorying in their first plunge into her abundant loose ringlets. She hums in delight and leans closer.

Maintaining their intense eye contact, Draco murmurs, “Hermione… you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, _ma petite_ : inside and out. You have no idea how special you are – but I do.”

Beaming shyly, Hermione sweeps his disordered flaxen fringe off his forehead, her fingers moving to cup his cheek. “You flatter me so, Jake… I know I’m just an ordinary woman,” she demurs.

“You are _extraordinary_ – and I shall never tire of reminding you of that unassailable truth,” Draco pledges, kissing her eyelids closed as she giggles. “Don’t you dare oppose me on this issue, _mon trésor_ – I simply will not tolerate it.”

“Well… if you insist… I suppose I can learn to live with daily compliments and protestations of your robust admiration,” Hermione concedes. “We all have our burdens to bear,” she sighs lustily.

Capturing her nimble hands in his, Draco earnestly declares, “Hermione, I admire you – I adore you – I love you with every fibre of my being. _Tu es le centre de mon monde, et tu y resteras, ma glorieuse lionne_.”

He infuses his words with every last scrap of his passionate devotion. “Will you let me make love to you, Hermione? Will you let me worship you with my body, _mon amour_?”.

Blinking rapidly, Hermione nods elatedly. “Only if you let me reciprocate… I love you so, Jake… just as you are. Make love to me, Jake Malloy.” Whipping round her legs and propping herself to a sitting position, Hermione fuses her lips with his, dipping her tongue between his avid lips. Draco increases the pressure of their heated osculation, bumping forward until his upper body is chocked between her spread thighs.

“Need to– mmmfff– need to get rid of these pesky clothes,” Hermione breathlessly cavils between kisses, her fingers almost tearing the buttons off his simple shirt. “You look so sexy, _Jake_ – I loved watching you work– ahhh– your gorgeous eyes, looking at me… _seeing_ me, seeing all of me… please, hurry,” she entreats.

Buttons half-undone, Draco expedites the disrobing process by yanking the shirt over his head and hurling it onto the floor.

“Your pants– get them off– don’t dawdle,” Hermione commands, shamelessly rubbing her satiny breasts against his bared pectorals. Her scrambling fingers claw at the two-button fastening of his buff trousers. Draco rips at them, registering a distant ping as the top one flies free. He shoves the corduroy slacks and plain cotton boxers to his knees and bolts upright, kicking off his boots and socks and hopping free of the lot.

Before he can return to his kneeling stance, Hermione joins him in standing up, squeezing his buttocks and humming appreciatively. “Would it be shallow of me to tell you how much I love your fit body?” she tilts her head, grinning wickedly.

“Being described as a ‘total blond hottie’ is nothing new for me, _ma chérie_ ,” Draco smugly repeats her comment from their movie viewing night. “You may sing paeans to my first-class good looks as often as you wish,” he graciously condescends.

“Magnanimous as ever,” Hermione drolly observes, sliding her palms down the backs of Draco’s thighs, sending tingling frissons whizzing across his skin. “Tell me, Jake: do all your life drawing sessions culminate in you… tumbling your models?”. Though she couches the question playfully, Draco detects the thread of apprehension in her voice.

“Never before. Only you,” Draco solemnly promises, his own hands skating across her back and hips in energetic flourishes. He hesitates before deciding to confess, “Hermione, I’d not been with any woman… since I went into rehab. I didn’t– meaningless sex wasn’t something I wanted to revisit… and I could only envision myself being in a happy relationship… with you.”

Silence. Draco wishes the words unspoken as Hermione’s desirous touches halt. He attempts some damage control.

“I’m sorry, I did not intend to reference my sordid past– please, forget I said anything–”

“Stop. Please.” Hermione wraps herself around his tensed body, waiting until their eyes reconnect. “I – I am surprised, that’s all. Surprised… and humbled. I know you’ve much more experience than me, and I didn’t expect… I never expected to hear you admit to voluntary celibacy, especially not because of… me. Thank you, _mon_ _cœur._ ”

Retreating a little, her hands move to the diamond and emerald necklace swinging enticingly in her cleavage. “Now… would you help me take off this little ‘trinket’, please? I’d hate for it to be damaged when I claim you… in all the ways I can,” she mugs a leer.

“Absolutely not – you’ll keep it on throughout, Hermione,” Draco rebuts. “I must insist. Help a destitute artist accomplish his prurient fantasy properly, hmmm?”. He steps out of the puddle of his clothing and tugs her down onto the couch with him.

“’Destitute’?” Oh, right – poor, famished Jake Malloy… fighting plump Parisian pigeons for a few crusts… My heart bleeds,” Hermione snickers.

“Mine beats for you,” Draco quiets her laughing mouth by slanting his own over it. Her lips are already quivering and swollen. His blood buzzes in his veins as he grapples to move their limbs into position, each feverish glide of skin on skin making him dizzy.

“Jake… how– how shall we do this…?” Hermione pants, as Draco wiggles until he is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, facing her.

“I want to try something… it’s called the ‘Wrapped Lotus’: I sit like this, and you mount my lap – yes, just like that – tuck your feet under me, at first. Yes, that’s it,” he encourages.

“Arms around me, too… when you’re ready, wrap your lovely legs around my back… and take me inside of you, _ma_ _belle_ ,” Draco coaches. He yearns to bury himself in her sweet heat.

 _No_. _Patience, fool. We have all night._

He buttresses Hermione’s back with his arms and takes a deep breath. “Kiss me, Hermione. Touch me… love me,” he supplicates. Her intoxicating scent of roses, bergamot, and vanilla strengthens as she bends her head to claim his mouth with a possessive wildness.

“Jake– you are _mine_ , I need you so– I want you so badly,” Hermione growls, biting soft kisses along his jawline and nipping at his ears as he shudders. Her damp quim grazes the head of his straining cock as she restlessly adjusts her position.

“Hermione: lean back, support your arms by propping your hands… I need to worship your fabulous breasts. I won’t let you fall.” She willingly complies, thrusting out her bosom for his zealous attentions.

Cupping her neck with his right hand and banding his left arm more securely around her back, Draco begins by laving his hot tongue along her collarbones, revelling in her soft sighs and gasps. He suckles at the tops and sides of her dewy globes, teasing her with little puffs across her hard-budded nipples. He chuckles naughtily as her areolae prickle with fine goosebumps.

“You’re such a tease,” Hermione grumbles. “Why don’t you– _aaaahhhh_ …”

Her complaint dies away as Draco captures her nipple and suckles strongly, steadily increasing his pressure before replicating his caress on her other breast.

“Don’t… don’t stop… _ohmigod_ , you drive me crazy… Ja-Jake,” Hermione burbles. “You’ve tried this position… before?”.

“Never– I read about it…” Draco replies between avid nuzzles and sucking bites. His hips jerk infinitesimally as Hermione’s hot core nudges his turgid cock.

_Must. Slow. Down._

His intention to progress slowly is dreadfully undermined when Hermione actively writhes her honeypot closer, mumbling incoherently as his stiffness slips through her wet folds.

“Hermione… please… I am losing control,” Draco groans, holding her steady and withdrawing from her swollen, love-bitten chest.

“I’m ready to try this properly… Jake, help me– ” Hermione tries to squirm closer without losing her precarious balance; she sends his eyes rolling back in his head as she accidentally pushes the engorged tip of his dick inside her.

“Wait – unghhh – slide forward… I have you, don’t worry… now, press up against me, like a hug, _mmm_ – fold your legs around my back and push down…”

Moaning and gasping together, Draco finally enters her tight channel; Hermione seats herself in his lap until he is buried inside her to the hilt. He rests his damp forehead against her brow to take a momentary breather.

“This is the sexiest damn hug I’ve ever had,” Hermione whispers raggedly, scraping her ripe pink buds on his torso. Her short nails scratch deliciously along his spine.

“I bloody well hope so,” Draco rasps proprietorially. “I’m going to kiss you breathless now, Hermione.”

He follows his cocky words with immediate action; licking and sucking and teasing her lips before his greedy mouth captures hers in an urgent, open-mouthed caress. He gentles the pace after a few torrid moments, wanting to fully experience and appreciate the specialness of their joining.

Hermione catches on quickly, alternating long, languid kisses with tender eye contact. Her body slides and grinds against him, around him… up and down on his tumescent cock, in a wonderfully unhurried experience of mutual tenderness and desire. Their breaths sync as their magic coils together, mimicking their deeply intimate coupling. The desperate climb toward orgasm settles as they give themselves over to pure sensation and the exchange of complex emotions.

Draco isn’t certain exactly when Hermione’s energy begins to flow into his, and vice versa; but he delights in the loop they create, feeding love and lust and longing back and forth between their minds and bodies.

Their rhythm now is effortless, instinctual… each graze and grind ricocheting and multiplying. Their eventual orgasms twine together, creating a burst of pure light and joy. Molten waves of pleasure ripple and swell as their bodies tremble, limbs clamped tightly together and mouths bonded.

**_I love you, Hermione._ **

**_I love you, Draco._ **

Unmeasured minutes elapse as they absorb each other. The sweat on their bodies cools before they gently draw apart. Hermione combs the fair hair out of Draco’s eyes and kisses his eyebrows, while his fingertips catalogue her vertebrae and trail across her shoulders.

“Lie down, _ma petite_ ,” Draco invites, lowering himself flat on the couch, keeping his knees bent to accommodate his length. He widens his thighs to make room for her body to nestle between them, continuing to stroke her back and glory in the opulence of her tawny, silken tresses. His fingers snag on the enamelled tortoiseshell butterfly comb; he carefully extracts it and pushes it beneath the sofa for safekeeping.

“Are you alright, _mon âme sœur_?”.

“Never been better,” Hermione languorously replies. “You can ‘wrap my lotus’ anytime you like, _mon_ _chéri_.”

“I rather thought you just wrapped mine, darling,” Draco jests. “It’s also known as the ‘yab-yum’ position in tantra, my little scholar,” he drowsily imparts.

“More like ‘yum-yum’,” Hermione yawns, cuddling into his chest. “Whatever you wish to call it: let’s do it again… repeatedly,” she decisively announces.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” Draco smiles into her abundant hair. “I adore your lascivious qualities, _chaton_.”

“I adore you, Draco. _My_ Draco,” Hermione stresses.

Her words cause his throat to close; Draco can do naught but hug his darling witch as tight as he dares. The remnants of their magical cores mating still float about the studio, minute twinkles of luminance and bliss that appear to be fluttering around them in quiet approval.

Once Draco is sure that he can speak without fear of his voice crackling, he softly pronounces, “ _My_ Hermione… I hope you will always be my love.”

“Always,” she answers immediately.

**_Always._ **

* * *

All credit goes to James Cameron for the borrowed dialogue in the drawing scene of ‘Titanic’ (1997).

Samuel Foote (1720-1777) coined the phrase "Born in a cellar and living in a garret."

* * *

**French translations:**

_mon trésor –_ my treasure.

 _ma_ _belle –_ my beautiful one.

 _mon âme sœur –_ my soulmate.

 _Tu es le centre de mon monde, et tu y resteras, ma glorieuse lionne._ – You are the centre of my world, and there you will remain, my glorious lioness.


	55. Anticipation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Asoreleks: thank you so much for allowing me to use your ideas about elven rivalry and impassioned (bad) German poetry. I hope I did your comedic prompts justice.  
> Many thanks to @krankykittie for your original fan club idea, of course!  
> Also, I am forever grateful to @sweeteangel1 for your invaluable linguistic/poetic advice and guidance.  
> As always, thank all of you for reading, and for all your support.
> 
> I promised you the Ball would begin this chapter... but I got a little sidetracked by house elves (sorry). Please stick with it, as the pre-Ball preparations are covered after the first two scenes; and I PROMISE, straight into the Gala proper in the next chapter. This update is a little longer than usual - I hope you like it.
> 
> 💗😊💗 VJ.

****

****Trigger warning: this chapter's second scene may incur vicarious/secondhand/empathetic/or third-party **embarrassment.******

_Friday 21 March 2003: AM_

Hermione isn’t surprised to find that the happy humming echoing from the kitchen is transmitting from her own mouth. _It’s a wonder my cheeks aren’t sore from all my elated smiles. Draco loves me. He loves **me**. _

She leans her hip against the kitchen sink and takes a moment to watch her handsome lover as he intently fiddles with his new toys at the dining table.

“Does Master Malfoy require assistance? Macdolas is knowledgeable in the ways of the appliances,” the lively sprite boasts, sitting to Draco’s left without waiting for an invitation. He fastidiously tugs down the leather gauntlets adorning the arms of his forest-green ‘Robin Hood’ ensemble and leans over to pick up the Polaroid camera that Draco has recently unwrapped.

“Oi!” Draco snatches the device out of reach as Mac’s ears wilt. “You may have a look at it when I’ve finished loading the film… I’m almost there,” he claims, picking up the brightly coloured little box and peering at the instructions on the back.

“Macdolas would have inserted it faster,” the elf grumbles, moving his attention to the bigger Wizard camera in the centre of the table. His elongated fingers twitch, but he prudently keeps them off the photographic equipment as Draco shoots him a chary glance.

“Let Draco mutter under his breath for a while longer, Mac: he’ll ask us for help soon enough,” Hermione joshes, sipping at her refilled mug of coffee.

“O ye of little faith – I’m watching you, Macdolas,” Draco cautions, as Mac sneaks a look at the instruction manuals for the Polaroid.

“He can read the guides, can’t he? You’re awfully cranky for a man who professed his overwhelming… euphoria just this morning, Draco,” Hermione winks as her boyfriend flushes pink.

Draco’s reply goes unspoken as the noise of the Floo is soon followed by a quick male tread.

“It’s just me… Harry,” he advises, stepping through the doorway and walking to the sink to give Hermione a brotherly hug. “Hey, Malfoy – Mac. What’ve you got there, cameras? Hey, a Polaroid! The Dursleys gave one to Dudley for his birthday once,” Harry wanders to the table to plonk himself down in the seat on Draco’s other side.

“I only picked them up yesterday – I’ll have them figured out in a jiffy,” Draco defensively replies, as Harry plucks the ‘Polaroid OneStep 600 Express’ from his hands. The Auror slides the latch and opens the small door, expertly inserting the film cassette and snapping it closed again. Macdolas delightedly applauds; Draco sulkily crosses his arms and pouts.

“I was just about to do that,” he declares, pale eyebrows beetling as Hermione snickers her disbelief. “I was!”.

“Sure you were, my love,” Hermione placates, setting down her mug to stand behind Draco’s chair and hug him from behind. She presses a kiss to his mouth as he tilts up his head, smiling fondly at him when their smooch ends.

“Ah… the love bomb has finally detonated, eh?” Harry shrewdly observes, his hands pausing on the Polaroid camera. “Excellent: Zabini and Nott owe me ten Galleons apiece.”

“Harry! You bet on when we would say the ‘L’ word?!?” Hermione screeches, pretending to cuff her old friend. “You arse!”

“Poor form, Potter,” Draco scooches back his chair to pull Hermione into his lap: they glare synchronously at the chuckling brunet.

“What? I bet you’d mutually declare your devotion _before_ the Ball; Theo picked during; and Blaise said not for another fortnight! I was _backing_ you guys… sheesh,” Harry defends.

“You’re all heart, Lightning Bolt,” Draco snips. “Why are you invading us uninvited… yet again?”.

Harry grins. “I have great news – Marcus Flint is showing some minor signs of coming out of his coma – well, he’s still unconscious, but the Healers reckon he might regain full sentience in a day or two,” he imparts.

Holding up a broad hand, he warns, “No promises though; and we’ll have to wait until he’s deemed well enough to undergo questioning and Veritaserum. The other information is that we’ve scoured The Manifesto, and although most of the latter pages and/or loose sheafs have been ripped out and removed, we’re working with the Scotland Yard forensics experts to run imprint imaging on the pages beneath. It’s a laborious process, but the Yard has promised results by early next week.”

“Harry – that’s great!” Hermione shares a pleased grin with Harry, feeling a portion of her anxiety dissipate at the news.

“Good work, Potter,” Draco comments approvingly. “What about Bones? Is he still in custody?”.

“Yes – but he’s applied for bail, and might be released sooner than we’d like. My team has been following a lead that Bones was responsible for tampering with some of the earlier evidence, specifically the incident with the French witch at the nightclub. If we can definitively prove Barry was involved in that, he won’t be going anywhere,” Harry grimly avows.

“That _fu–_ furtive blackguard!” Hermione snarls, amending her initial profane reaction in deference to Mac’s flapping ears. She scowls at Draco and Harry as they snicker at her archaic insult. “What? Bones is an utter disgrace to the badge – and I still want to rip out his guts with a rusty spoon, after how he abused Theo.”

“I know, I know – but we’ve got this covered, OK?” Harry soothes.

Draco clasps her more firmly around her middle and kisses her neck. “Your savagery is a wonderment to behold, _ma petite_ ; but I would rather not visit you in Azkaban, hmmm?”.

Hermione concedes the point, relaxing back against Draco and craning down her face for a proper kiss. The flash and whirr-whirr-whirr of the Polaroid makes them both blink and recoil. Harry smirks, before turning his attention to the thick square photograph once it emerges from the camera. He peels off the outer film before pushing the snapshot across to Macdolas.

“Check it out, Mac… it’ll take a while, but the picture develops right before your eyes. Don’t touch it yet, though, the chemicals can be caustic.”

Macdolas’s astonished eyes comically bulge as dim silhouettes begin to emerge on the small square. “Master Potter’s skills are bountiful and multitudinous indeed! Macdolas respectfully asks to be taught the ways of the PollyRude by His Excellency Most Revered?” he entreats.

“It’s a ‘Polaroid’, and _I_ bought it, Mac,” Draco emphasizes, before he sighs resignedly. “Go on, then – take a few shots. Maybe you can get a proper one of us, please,” he carefully arranges Hermione on his lap.

Harry quickly demonstrates how to use the viewfinder and buttons. “You know this model is a couple of years old, right? There’s a much more compact version available, it prints smaller pictures, too,” he tells Draco. “Like a photo booth strip… ah, never mind.”

Hermione stifles a chuckle at Draco’s pinched expression. “The Muggle proprietor assured me this was an up-to-date model… and the last one in the shop,” he sourly states.

“Yeah… he saw you coming, Malfoy,” Harry teases. “Don’t fret, it’s still a decent device. Do you need some more instructions, Mac?” Harry asks, as the dining chair totters beneath Mac’s standing weight.

“Macdolas thanks the Revered Master Auror Harry Potter: he merely wishes to improve his angle.” He critically squints through the camera as though he’s been commissioned to photograph the Royal Family at Christmas.

“Right, now say ‘cheese!’, and press that top button,” Harry instructs. “No, I don’t know why Muggles say that, it’s just a thing, Mac,” he forestalls the inevitable curious elfin query.

“Well, apparently it originated from a newspaper article in Texas in the 1940s: there’s a theory that President Franklin D. Roosevelt coined the phrase,” Hermione is happy to convey the trivia. “Apparently he said it creates an automatic smile, as the ‘ch’ sound brings together your teeth, then the long ‘ee’ vowel parts your lips and turns your expression into a grin.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione, is there anything you don’t know?” Harry marvels.

“Nope – my beautiful witch is a genius,” Draco smugly answers. “How lucky am I?” he chuckles as Hermione blushes.

“Cheese!” Mac hollers, capturing the moment. The next few minutes are spent with everyone taking experimental turns at using the new device, though Mac is initially loath to give it up. The elf contents himself with sticking his face into as many of the pictures as possible, much to Draco’s disgust.

Harry checks his wristwatch, pulling a face as he notes the time. “I’d best be off – duty calls and all that. We’ll be rushed off our feet this morning, what with all the extra background checks for the Gala. Now, I want you both to swear that you won’t wander off ANYWHERE alone tonight, please? Not even to the toilet – go in a group. That goes for you too, Malfoy,” he clarifies, disregarding Draco’s huffed displeasure with an impatient wave of his hand. “Well?”.

“We promise,” the couple dutifully repeat.

“Cool. Oh, one more thing – is it alright if I send over Kreacher to stay here while we’re all at the Ball? He won’t admit it, but I think he’s a bit lonely, rattling around with just me for (sporadic) company. I thought that since Theo is sending over Wirey, you wouldn’t mind hosting another elf, please?” Harry inveigles.

“Hold up – what? When did I agree to that moustachioed little menace visiting?” Draco protests.

“Oh, um… sorry, I forgot to mention it last night– well, that’s not entirely my fault, I mean– you did keep me otherwise occupied from the moment I got home– not that I’m complaining, far from it…” Hermione chatters.

At Draco’s stoic look and Harry’s rolled eyes, she elucidates, “Theo owled me yesterday afternoon, asking if we’d mind hosting Wirey, and Blaise’s house elf Gelsomina, for the evening; Theo is worried for Wirey’s safety after the recent break-in at Nott Manor, and Blaise reckons Gelsy is bored out of her brain of late… so I said yes, dependent on checking with you, Draco – and then I plumb forgot. I’m sorry… I can owl Theo now and tell him it’s a no-go–”

“No, it’s fine, sweetheart. I’m certain Macdolas will have no issue with entertaining the elven rabble… besides, weren’t you recently rabbiting on about increasing membership of your absurd fan club, ‘Dobbin’ Hood?” he razzes his major-domo.

Pointing his sharp nose high, Mac pompously espouses, “Macdolas pities Master Malfoy’s sapless ‘humour’! Macdolas proudly represents the House of Granger-Malfoy tonight, as the trusted envoy of Her Grace Lady Granger. As co-President and Founder of the Grateful and Reverent Elven Appreciation Society for Extraordinary Renowned Sorcerers, Macdolas does indeed seek new memberships and shall verily seek subscriptions from his visitors, should they prove worthy of such honour–”

“Hold up – hold up,” Draco wheezes, clutching at the back of a chair for support as he disrupts Mac’s verbose monologue. “Your fan club’s acronym is ‘G.R.E.A.S.E.R.S.?’ _GREASERS_?!? Granger, was this your idea?” he cackles unrestrainedly, as Harry tries to repress his own snort of mirth under Hermione’s withering glare.

“I’m with Mac – don’t join a comedy circuit any time soon, Malfoy,” Hermione disparages, gently patting their steward’s stiffly resentful back. “I think it’s very… um, catchy, Mac. I bet Wirey and Gelsy would love to join. Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?” she sternly rounds on him.

Coughing, Harry fervently nods. “It’s – it’s an inspired title, Mac. Really… memorable,” he edges toward the doorway. “Maybe don’t bother asking Kreacher to sign up, though; he’s not a big fan of Gryffindor wizards – though he has warmed to Hermione,” he adds.

“He peppered me with anxious questions as to your welfare all last week, love – sorry, it slipped my mind to pass on his wishes for your swift recovery,” Harry ruefully admits. “Caught the crotchety old rogue secretly checking Grimmauld Place’s library looking for old tomes on remote curses… he reluctantly confessed to his intention to ‘bedamn the filthy Flint line for all eternity’.”

“Oh! That’s… sweet of him?” Hermione weakly grimaces. “I’ll be sure to thank Kreacher for it when he arrives this afternoon.”

“Righto – see you tonight! I’m sorry I can’t meet you here beforehand like everyone else, but you know… Ron…” Harry rubs a nervous hand over his neck. “Bye!” he scarpers for the Floo, as Draco predictably sneers.

“’Meet here beforehand like everyone else’?” Draco tsks as he prowls toward her; Hermione laughs breathlessly as she skedaddles around the dining table to stay out of his impressive reach.

“Ah, yes… about that… Pansy suggested that us girls all get ready upstairs, and then she said we might as well invite the boys – honestly, she was unstoppably insistent, Malfoy, I wasn’t given an option–”

“So says the sharpshooter lawyer who took all of five minutes to annihilate the bumbling Auror division with a few scathing sentences,” Draco shakes his head in negation of her prevarication. “You’ve been a naughty, forgetful little witch, my love; first the crazy elf gathering, and now we’re to be invaded by more freeloaders… what else have you forgotten to divulge, I wonder?” he stalks closer.

“Nothing! Oh, well… Luna asked if it would be OK to bring Ginny, and I thought you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Another ruddy Weasley,” Draco grumbles. “Won’t that be awkward, for Potter? And Pansy?”. He is inching closer with every word. Hermione’s bubbling giggles turn to squeals as he gets near enough to lightly pinch her bum through her work pants.

“No – I asked them – separately, they are wallowing in denial, as you know – and both said they were fine with it,” Hermione tugs out a chair in a feeble attempt to slow down Draco as he pursues her relentlessly around the table. Mac pays them no heed, having returned to his fascination with the cameras.

“Look – stop this, we have to get to work, it’s only a half day because of the Ball, and I’ve a ton of paperwork to plow through–” a burst of light distracts Hermione long enough for Draco to grab her and nullify her squirming limbs in a bear hug from behind. Mac expertly peels off the protective layer of his latest instant photograph and whistles approvingly at his handiwork.

“Malfoy… _mmm_ … Draco,” Hermione willingly succumbs to his ardent kiss, rotating in his hold to feather her fingers through his silken blond locks. Their lip-lock quickly heats; Draco hauls her flush against him and roves his big artist’s hands over her back and buttocks.

Another artificial flare of light; Draco growls, reaching behind Hermione but failing to seize the snap-happy elf as Macdolas scrambles from his chair and skips out the doorway.

“Macdolas reminds Her Grace Lady Granger that Her Supreme Loveliness is due to begin work in two minutes!” he carols as he bolts, spindly legs vigorously pumping.

Hermione laces her fingers with Draco’s, slowing his dash after the scamp. “He’s right, Draco – and you know I hate being late,” she regretfully trudges toward the Floo.

“You’re painfully conscientious, Hermione… and I love you for it,” Draco affectionately kisses her nose once they stop before the fireplace. “Macdolas – I’ll thank you to desist your invasive paparazzi tendencies immediately, understood? Fortunately, you’ve left behind the photographs, or you’d be in a lot of trouble right now,” Draco berates.

“Macdolas would never breach the sacrosanct privacy of the House of Granger-Malfoy!” his offended high tones ring inside the Floo. “He shoots the snaps for the sake of posterity… and humbly asks to please be borrowing the PollyRude to memorialize his own happy union with the divine Ruibby?”.

“Always with the toadying…” Draco grouses. Hermione folds back her smile and bestows a tender kiss to her wizard’s crabby mouth.

“He means well,” she whispers. “I’ll be back in a few hours, mon _chéri._ I’m so excited for tonight!”

“Me too, _ma belle_ ,” Draco strokes his thumbs along the sides of her throat. “I love you, Hermione Jean Granger.”

“I love you, Draco Lucius Malfoy. See you soon.”

* * *

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

“Yoo hoo! It’s just us!” Blaise sing-songs as he steps through the hearth and into the lounge proper. “Where are you at, Jakey boy?”.

Putting down his cheese knife, Draco mutters a brief invocation to the Roman goddess of patience. “Salacia, please grant me the fortitude to deal with friendly fools, and lunatic elves… and resist the temptation to hex the whole crackpot bunch.” He picks up the snack platter and makes his way to the living room to greet his guests.

“Hey, Draco – thanks very much for agreeing to host us,” Theo is the first to speak. “Can I give you a hand with anything?”.

“No thanks, I’ve got it. We’ve plenty of cool drinks in the fridge, plus tea and coffee; just help yourselves,” he places the platter on the coffee table and gestures toward the kitchen. “Hermione and Macdolas should be back any moment; I believe Pansy will be with her.”

“Brilliant,” Zabini rubs together his hands exultantly as he spies the array of rich cheeses and fruits. Theo nudges him and nods at the small elf standing beside Wirey, before Blaise can snaffle more than a grape.

“Oh, right. Gelsy, this is Draco; Draco, Gelsy,” he whizzes casually through the introductions. “I’d love a cuppa, mate: Earl Grey, two sugars, splash of milk?” Blaise at least selects a paper napkin before loading it up with finger food.

“Gelsomina bids Lord Malfoy _buona sera_ ; she thanks him most kindly for his generous hospitality,” the diminutive honey-haired middle-aged maidservant performs a pretty curtsey, holding out the deep skirt of her steel-blue uniform at a precise angle. “Master Blaise speaks often of his _amici del cuore_ and the many undertakings of the Wizardly friends.” Her pale brown eyes regard him kindly but shrewdly.

 _Translation: Blaise is as big a blabbermouth at home as he is at work._ Draco twists his mouth into a half-smile.

“ _Buona sera,_ _Signorina_ Gelsomina. _Herr_ Wireceaster,” he acknowledges. Wirey is eyeing Gelsy with an odd look on his barbigerous little face. “Have you two met before?” Draco prompts curiously, as Gelsomina’s nose wrinkles with displeasure.

“They don’t really get along,” Theo explains in a low murmur. “Best not to get into that, right now.”

“Mate, not to be pushy – but how’s my cup of cha looking, hmmm?” Blaise pauses feeding his face long enough to cheekily remind.

The Floo actuates ( _possibly saving Zabini’s idiot life_ ). Macdolas bustles out first, holding aloft a vase of deep red roses that mostly obscures his petite frame and momentarily blocks his view of the assembled party.

“Master Malfoy, Her Grace Lady Granger and The Personable Mistress Pansy Parkinson are home! Macdol– “ he stops dead, suddenly noticing the other elves. Hermione almost cannons into him as she and Pansy exit the Floo.

“Thank Merlin you’re here,” Draco dashes to Hermione’s side, smothering her sweet lips and face in amatory kisses; she eagerly reciprocates, giggling between smooches.

“Malfoy – I’ve only been gone five hours…!” she laughingly remonstrates. “We have guests, _mon_ _cœur…_ ahhh,” she sighs, as he nibbles on her neck.

“It has been a cruel eternity without you, _ma petite_ ,” Draco avers, breaking away to unhook her work satchel and toe it out of the way. “Only your kisses will ease the pain of our separation,” he hams it up.

“Here we go,” Pansy sets down her big garment bag and make-up kit beside the guys’ bags, planting her hands on her hips and grinning at Theo and Blaise. “Aren’t they just perfectly, nauseatingly sweet? And shockingly unmindful of social mores? Hello Gelsomina, Wirey.”

Theo kisses Pansy’s cheek; Blaise wanders over to peck the other. “Hey, Pans. Want a hand with your gear?” he nods at her bags, before cramming the rest of a cheese wedge into his mouth.

“Get away from me and my stuff – you’ve the table manners of a Nogtail,” Pansy remonstrates. “I’ll Accio it upstairs in a moment.”

“Macdolas is happy to assist Mistress Parkinson,” the seneschal offers, after telekinetically setting the massive rose bouquet on the end of the coffee table. He struts closer to his fellow elves. “Macdolas deferentially requests a polite introduction?” he hints.

Theo steps in. “Macdolas, this is _Signorina_ Gelsomina, and _Herr_ Wireceaster. Gelsy, Wirey: this is Macdolas, of the Clan Fhionnlaigh.”

The three elves perform rigid bows, glancing warily at one another. Wirey is the first to break away, making a beeline for Hermione and prostrating himself at her small feet.

Draco becomes aware of a disturbance in the ether when Hermione squeaks in surprise and looks down.

“ _Fräulein_ Granger! Wireceaster begs the reciting of his _götzendienerisch_ – idolatrous – poetry? He crafts the unrhyming lines with sweat _und das Blut_ , blood of heart!” Wirey spins, almost tripping over the blue corduroy beanbag. Gelsomina prudently steps back from the teetering sprite; Macdolas glowers and restlessly taps his foot.

“Oh dear, please be careful, Wirey–” Hermione makes an abortive move toward the elderly elf, stymied by Draco’s firm arm around her waist.

“Don’t you dare, Granger – let the little _stupide_ brain himself on the furniture, if he’s so inclined,” Draco carps. 

“Never be fearing, _Liebste Dame_ – Herr Wireceaster _ist_ spry,” he solemnly assures, twiddling at his elaborately curled white moustache. “Master Nott translates for _das Englisch_ , _bitte_?”

Displaying a nimbleness that Draco would not have thought possible, Wirey leaps onto the coffee table and strikes a histrionic pose worthy of a Shakespearian-trained Muggle actor. The vase of scarlet flowers wobbles.

“Have a care!” Draco snipes, moving to steady the bunch; but Macdolas flicks his capable wrist and secures the vase immediately. Draco is unimpressed to note Zabini chortling, as the tall Slytherin reclines lazily on the squashy cyan sofa. Pansy has her arms wrapped around her sides, a smirk stretching her full mouth. Theo is chewing back his own smile even as he shrugs apologetically.

“Sorry, Draco… Wirey is terribly obdurate. Maybe just let this play out?”.

On cue, Wireceaster launches into his verse recital, Theo interpreting after each line.

_“Ein bescheidener Elf”_

“A humble elf –”

_“Starrt erstaunt bei seiner Königin”_

“Stares in amazement at his queen –”

_"Er baut eine Burg in der Luftschloss”_

“He builds a castle in the air –”

_“Von süßer Hingabe Zur schönsten Hexe der Welt.”_

“Of sweet devotion to the most beautiful witch in the world.–”

_“Er ist dein Diener bis ans Ende der Tage…_

“He is your servant until the end of days–”

_“Er wirft sich zu deinen zierlichen Füßen”_

“He flings himself at your dainty feet –”

_“Und wünscht sich nur die Freude, alle Ihre Bedürfnisse und Wünsche zu erfüllen.”_

“And wishes only for the joy of fulfilling your every need and desire.–”

_“Klappe zu, Affe tot.”_

“Close the lid, the monkey is dead.”

Wirey finishes with a wild flourish, audibly popping his joints as his geriatric knees drop to the tabletop. Everyone bar Hermione and Mac attempts a variety of methods to contain their mirth, as the overcome senior elf drags out a huge ivory silk square from his vest pocket and sobs into it noisily.

 _‘The monkey is dead’??_ Draco shakes his head, utterly befuddled. He looks to Theo for clarification, soundlessly mouthing the phrase.

“It’s a popular German idiom – it just means something like, ‘that’s the end of the story,” Nott explains. “No deceased primates intended, I believe.” Theo covers his mouth with his hands as Blaise almost tips off the back of the sofa in roiling hilarity. Pansy is gasping into a couch cushion, while a coughing Gelsomina hides behind her.

Hermione takes advantage of Draco’s loosened hold to approach the kneeling old elf, gently helping him to step off the table. Wirey refuses to let go of her hand and presses his leathery, tear-damp face against her trouser leg.

Macdolas beats Draco to the punch again, growling as he yanks at Wirey’s stubbornly clinging arm. “The Wirey grossly oversteps his place! He rankly abuses the good-naturedness of Her Grace Lady Granger and stops at once!” Mac yowls, his hands slipping a little as the decorative leather gauntlets hamper his grip on the German butler.

“The Macdolas knows not how pure _und_ dedicated beats Wirey’s heart for _Fräulein_ Granger!” Wirey snaps in return, refusing to relinquish his handhold. His sodden white handkerchief flutters to the floor as the two manservants bump chests and snarl like tiny bears, bobbing and scrambling to and fro around Hermione’s legs in tightly woven figure eights.

 _This is fucking ridiculous_.

Hermione is still trying to cautiously extricate herself from the escalating elfish battle royale when Draco takes charge. He scoops up his too-nice girlfriend and hoists her well out of reach of the squabbling fey fighters.

“That’s **ENOUGH**! Macdolas – leave Wireceaster alone, he is still a guest in our home – and thrice your age, to boot,” Draco lambastes the sullen manikin. “Elven brawling is expressly forbidden, you peanut.”

“Theo – can you please take care of your crying elf? There are tissues on the sideboard. If Kreacher arrives, make him welcome – ditto Luna and Ginny Weasley. I’m taking my beloved upstairs and well out of reach of the elven horde,” Draco says, already carrying Hermione toward the staircase.

“Pansy – give us five minutes, please,” Draco throws the request back over his shoulder.

Hermione loops her hands around his neck and gazes at him lovingly; she waits until he has begun to ascend the steps before she gives in to her quiet laughter, burying her face in his neck to muffle her giggles.

“It’s rather disturbing, Granger – you seem to inspire a peculiar kind of possessive madness in these nutty little creatures,” Draco says, punctuating his statement with a wry smile.

“I think they just need an outlet for their hyperactive emotions,” Hermione diplomatically demurs. “And perhaps to socialize… it’s not really about me, or Harry. They _are_ coming off centuries of slavery, after all.”

“You are the sweetest, kindest woman I’ve ever known, Hermione.” Draco pushes open the door to their bedroom with his toe, setting her down on their bed.

“Now, we have five minutes to passionately snog, before Pansy starts bossing you about… let’s make the most of it.”

Hermione mischievously beckons him to sit beside her, a saucy expression lighting up her pretty face.

“Well? Time’s a-wasting, my darling wizard. Kiss me, _mon amour_.”

Draco sinks onto the mattress and gladly complies.

* * *

“Pansy? Am I allowed to look in the mirror now?” Hermione whines, as Pansy slaps warningly at her restive fingers, stopping her from resting them on her gown.

“Wait – I just have to fix your eyeliner… Luna, would you please pass me that pencil?” Pansy twirls her finger in the direction of the top level of her compact make-up kit, peering critically at Hermione’s left eye.

“Luna’s gone upstairs to look at Draco’s studio,” Ginny slaps the required eyeliner in Pansy’s open palm. “She said she’ll be back in a few minutes.”

 _Hell – did Draco safely put away last night’s drawing into his portfolio, like he promised he would?_ Hermione starts to chew on her bottom lip but thinks better of it as Pansy clucks acerbically. _Too late now,_ she fatalistically decides. She swiftly looks between her recently-reconciled friend and her new one; fortunately, the brief awkwardness of their initial meeting tonight seems to have fully evaporated.

“No frowning – and don’t look at me, look up – that’s it,” Pansy skilfully sketches in the dark brown lines, and makes a final blending adjustment of the contoured ‘shimmering neutrals’ earthy palette on Hermione’s eyelids.

“Perfect.” She steps back and nods decisively. “OK, you may now cast your eyes on the gloriousness of my fashionable creation,” she bombastically intones.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione catches sight of Luna slipping back into the bedroom. She smiles at her friend before picking her way across the rug in her strappy red heels to stand before the mirror… blinking repeatedly as she gets her first glimpse of her reflection.

Fortunately, Pansy hasn’t styled her to be sophisticatedly unrecognizable tonight; Hermione is glad she insisted on a simpler style of dress and hair, and that her face isn’t slathered in too-heavy make-up.

 _I still look like me, just… fancier, she thinks with relief. And maybe… prettier._ Her red-painted lips curve in a shy smile as she takes in all of Pansy’s hard work of the past few hours, starting from the crown of her head.

Once Draco had been prised away from her person and shoved unceremoniously out the door, Hermione had taken a long, depilating/exfoliating shower, washing and conditioning her hair and using all of her personalized luxury toiletries until her skin shone and her hair was glossy and tamed.

Pansy had tackled her mahogany mop first, adding an extra anti-frizz crème to her regular detangling oil, before expertly brushing and twisting it into a relaxed braid. She’d added tiny gold leaf pins for both securing and decorative purposes.

Next came the make-up; Luna and Pansy had arrived by that stage, and each taken their own showers while Pansy had worked her magic on Hermione’s face. She’d had to cool her heels as Pansy had ducked in for her own wash, leaving stern instructions that none of them don their dresses until she gave specific clearance.

Pansy had swiftly attended to Luna and Ginny’s hair and faces, marcelling Luna’s fine blonde tresses into pronounced side waves and a tucked-under low bob, with dramatic eye shadow and dark pink lips; the flapper look matches her stunning Art deco strapless silver-blue dress. A wide belt cinches in her tiny waist, lending definition to the sweeping wide, long sleeves and train of the sparkly blue overlay robe, while fine silver belled chandelier earrings tinkle with each movement of her delicate head.

Ginny’s flowing auburn locks had been loosely curled and left to hang freely over her shoulders, with matte golden hues on her eyes, and a coral lip. Her gown is deceptively simple: a vee-necked plunging bodice with spaghetti straps and a fitted skirt; but the multiple layered fine gold fringes that pattern from the waist to mid-calf combine with the gauzy white underskirt to create a striking effect.

Pansy herself had quickly coiled her waterfall-straight sable strands into an artful side chignon with teased-out framing wisps, before applying violet eyeshadow and a deep crimson lipstick. Her dress had made them all gasp in awe when she’d slipped into it: iris purple silk, with a low curving wave neckline that barely restrains her bosom; a smattering of brilliant crystals partially occludes her right breast, the gems continuing along the single thin strap and repeated on the lateral edge of the curving neckline. The voluminous skirt is gathered on the same hip and trails the floor.

Hermione now takes a deep breath before double-checking her appearance in the looking glass.

The dress she is wearing is a glorious concoction of true red satin, with a scalloped cross-over boned bodice, wide velvet shoulder straps and a narrow waist, accentuated by the gold-buckled red velvet belt. The floor-length skirt is cut high on her left thigh, exposing most of that slender leg; the swathe of richly smooth material is full, heavy, and cunningly pleated at the back to swish sensually as she walks. Pansy has dusted just a hint of golden powder on her exposed collarbones and the tops of her breasts, highlighting her olive skin. There is a concealed narrow pocket at her left hip for her wand; Hermione pats it reassuringly. It is just wide and deep enough to also hold her tube of bright red lippy.

“You don’t… you don’t think it’s too cliched? The red, I mean – I don’t want it to scream ‘Gryffindor’ like a fire alarm,” Hermione worries aloud.

“Not at all – and besides, red is always glorious on you, Hermione. You look…” Ginny trails off, cocking her head to the side as the four witches line up shoulder-to-shoulder before the mirror.

“Like a beautiful warrior,” Luna finishes. “You ARE a warrior, Hermione. Be proud of your strength. We love you dearly for it.”

“We do,” Pansy nods, as Ginny squeezes Hermione’s twitching hand in gentle support. “I have to say – you were right to refuse that frothy number I initially tried to foist on you. This is much more… _you_. Clean, powerful… gorgeous. You look bloody amazing, Pollyanna. Draco is going to go utterly gaga when he sees you come down that staircase,” Pansy complacently predicts.

“Oh – I don’t think I should descend the stairs while the boys are watching… I’m not terribly confident in these heels yet,” Hermione objects.

“Nonsense – keep hold of the banister, and go slowly, you worrywart. Now, I just have to say – are we the hottest witches in the world right now, or what?! Damn, ladies!” Pansy brags.

Hermione joins in the carefree laughter as Pansy makes exaggerated ‘model’ poses in the mirror and Ginny pretends to preen; Luna even attempts a seductive (somewhat owlish) pout.

When the merriment dies down, Hermione gives each of her friends a soft hug, taking care not to mess with their immaculate presentation. “You are all spectacular: you really are stunningly beautiful, splendid women, inside and out. Thank you very much for being in my life,” she sniffs and winkles away a tear before Pansy can threaten another hexing for ‘messing up her masterpiece’.

“Oh – my jewellery. I’ll just grab the gold locket Mum and Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday,” Hermione remembers.

Pansy shakes her head. “No – your rich wizard’s already got that covered,” she smirks. “Trust me: you’re going to love it.”

Hermione blushes as her friends wail, “Oooooooooo!” in idiotic, taunting unison.

“Cut it out – I still have to get something out of my ‘ballerina’ box before we go downstairs – and where are my tickets? I’m sure I left them atop the dresser,” Hermione fusses.

“They’re already in your pocket, Hermione,” Luna tranquilly enlightens. “You’re a little flustered… that’s to be expected. I bet Draco is even more nervous; it’s such a special night for you both. You’re going to have a wonderful time,” the blonde Ravenclaw dreamily asserts.

Hermione bobs her head in a jerky nod, feeling silly tears swelling again. She hastily rifles through her jewellery case until she finds what she seeks; she slips the small item into her right hand and takes a cleansing breath.

Unsurprisingly, Pansy is already impatiently holding open the door. “Come on – if we time this right, we are going to make the entrance of the night at this shindig! Chop-chop, witches!”.

Adrenaline already thrumming through her veins, Hermione takes up the rear of their little procession, her nervous fingers rubbing at the small item in her hand.

_I hope Draco won’t be disappointed in my gift… I hope he won’t be disappointed in me._

Shaking off her insecurity, Hermione determinedly sweeps up her flowing skirts and passes through the doorway.

* * *

Draco checks his watch again. _Not long to go now… it’s OK – Pansy runs a tight ship, she knows what time the Gala starts. Remain cool and controlled; they’ll be down shortly._ He shuts his eyes and slows his breathing and heartrate. _Better_.

He trains his narrowed vision on the five elves grouped around the dining table. Ruibby had Apparated here during his all-too-brief snogging session with Hermione, while Kreacher had Floo’ed in a few minutes after Draco had been kicked out of the master bedroom and returned downstairs. Luna and Ginny had arrived soon thereafter, and had wasted little time galloping upstairs to join the other two witches.

Sending Blaise and Theo ahead of him to use one of the other two upstairs bathrooms, Draco had herded the elves into the kitchen/dining room, lingering in the lounge to lay down the law to his ornery male employee.

“Macdolas: I expect you to apologize sincerely to _Herr_ Wireceaster, and invite him (and Gelsomina) to join your Greasy Club, is that understood? Otherwise I’ll be forced to send you and your girlfriend back to the Manor for the night, and leave Kreacher in charge of the townhouse,” Draco had firmly presented the ultimatum. “Choose wisely.”

Opening and closing his mouth without issue half a dozen times, Macdolas had at last merely pointedly spelled, “’ _G.R.E.A.S.E.R.S.’_ , Master Malfoy,” and nodded his head in resigned accord with Draco’s directive.

Once he’d returned to the kitchen after bathing and dressing, Draco had been relieved to see the elves sitting at the table in circumspect harmony, Mac holding court at the head of the table and handing out parchment applications to join their fan club, with Ruibby taking copious notes – no, ‘minutes of the inaugural meeting’, Draco had sniggered to himself. Thankfully, Wirey’s waterworks had dried up; he’d been fastidiously re-curling his waxed moustache, while Gelsy peered down her nose at him… and Kreacher had looked like he’d rather be cleaning out a Hippogriff stable. Somehow, Harry’s inherited house elf is managing to project disdain, reluctance, and jaundiced cynicism, without speaking a single word.

_Well played, Kreacher._

A commotion sounds from the landing; Draco spins on his dragon leather heel as he hears Blaise’s admiring whistle.

“Malfoy – get out here – the girls are finally ready!” Zabini calls. “Trust me, mate – you don’t want to miss this!”

A few swift paces and he is in the hallway, his eager eyes barely noticing the resplendence of Pansy, Luna, and Ginny descending the stairs. Draco sucks in a huge breath when he finally sees Hermione walking behind them.

She is smiling shyly at him, one hand tightly gripping the railing as she carefully finds her footing on each tread before stepping to the one below. Draco knocks aside Zabini’s considerable bulk with a well-placed elbow, desperate to get a better view of his sublimely beautiful girlfriend… lover… _soulmate_.

“Breathe, dummy,” Zabini thumps him on the back none-too-gently, prudently moving to shelter behind Theo as Draco wheezes and growls. He doesn’t waste time seeking retribution: Hermione is the sole focus of his intense regard. Stopping on the third last stair, she locks her whiskey brown eyes with his wide graphite ones.

“Draco… um, hi. You look… amazing,” Hermione compliments.

“Hermione– you continue to steal my lines, _ma petite_ ,” Draco finally finds his voice. He holds out his hand to assist her off the last few steps, hoping she fails to notice the fine tremor running through his fingers.

“You look like a goddess… you _are_ a goddess. My beautiful, strong, brilliant queen.” Draco lifts her hand to his lips and bows over it to kiss each folded knuckle.

“Merlin’s fluffy bathrobe… are they always like this?” Ginny Weasley incredulously exclaims. “I thought you were exaggerating when you told me how mushy they are together, Luna!”.

“Oh, yes: Draco has pined for Hermione for eons, Ginny; and I believe Hermione has shared his yearning for longer than we realized. It’s deeply satisfying to witness how thoroughly they express their love for one another, you know: emotionally _and_ physically. They can’t stop touching and smooching, it’s so–”

“Refreshing–” says Theo.

“Confronting–” chips in Pansy.

“Titillating–” Blaise waggles his eyebrows.

“… Sweet,” Luna concludes, blithely ignoring the unsolicited conflicting opinions.

“Thanks, Luna,” Draco spares a smile for his Ravenclaw ally, before the clattering scrape of multiple dining chairs reaches his ears. He curves his hand around Hermione’s waist and guides her towards the lounge room before the Lilliputian riffraff catch sight of their idol and begin another rivalrous affray.

“Grant us a few minutes’ privacy, please,” he firmly closes the door behind them and collects a jewellery case from the mantlepiece.

“Hermione, I would be honoured if you wore these tonight; and – _bien sûr –_ accepted them permanently.” Draco quells his nerves by sheer force of will, slowly unhooking the clasp on the chest and raising the lid to reveal a hammered-gold double-leafed laurel headband and matching drop earrings. “Pansy suggested I choose something ‘golden, and befitting Athena’; I thought of you the moment I saw them.”

He clears his throat edgily, relief flooding through him as Hermione claps her hands in patent delight. “Draco – they’re perfect! You spoil me so… I really don’t deserve all this!” she sighs.

“Of course you do: now, please hold still so I may put them on you,” Draco gingerly lifts the headdress and positions it precisely on Hermione’s forehead and braided hair. He loops the earrings through her lobes with equally scrupulous attention, standing back to take in the breathtaking vision she presents.

“Draco… thank you. You always… you always make me feel so special… so loved,” Hermione twists her fingers together and smiles beatifically. “How do they look?”.

“Absolutely superb – just like you, Hermione,” Draco warmly assures. “Must we attend this Ball? I am seized with the flaming desire to simply rush you upstairs and have my wicked way with you… repeatedly.”

“Malfoy! I didn’t suffer through Pansy’s rigorous beauty and fashion regime for hours just to skip the main event – never mind, I know you are teasing,” Hermione airily dismisses.

“Not entirely,” Draco mumbles to himself. Before he can suggest they rejoin the others, Hermione lays her small hand on his chest.

Biting her lip, she uncertainly petitions, “Draco… I have a small gift for you, too. You’re under no obligation to accept it, of course – it probably seems a little trite – certainly, it’s nowhere in the league of the exquisite jewellery and flowers you constantly lavish upon me – Oh! and thank you so much for the red roses you sent today, I don’t need a floriography textbook to know what _they_ mean,” a happy grin breaks through her nervous demeanour for a moment.

Sliding his hands along Hermione’s upper arms until he reaches the red velvet and satin straps, Draco exhorts, “Hermione, I would be honoured to accept your gift… but perhaps you should actually give it to me first, sweetheart.”

“Right – yes, hold on–” Hermione fumbles at her right hip. “Wait – I think it’s dropped to the bottom of this pocket, my wand is in the way – aha!” she triumphantly produces a small blue velvet pouch and drops it into his waiting hand.

As Draco unties the fine drawstring, Hermione quietly explains, “This was originally commissioned as a gift, from my great-great-great grandmother Emmeline to her then-fiancé Gilbert. Upon his death, she gave it to her daughter; it has been passed down my maternal line for over a century.”

The item Draco tips out onto his palm is a small oval cameo pendant, a little bigger than a coin; it has a dark brown background, with a raised woman’s silhouette depicted in the marble-white foreground.

“It’s a hand-carved sardonyx cameo – one of the rarest and most expensive types, of the Victorian era… and that’s my ancestor Emmeline’s profile. Family legend has it that Gilbert carried it with him everywhere from that day forward, and listed it in his will as his ‘greatest treasure’.”

As Draco continues to stare at the cameo in silence, Hermione hesitantly asks, “Is it not to your liking? My mother believes I bear a striking resemblance to Emmeline – but perhaps that’s rather fanciful; and I know cameos aren’t fashionable, nowadays–”

“Hermione. This is… this is the most wonderful, special, precious gift I have ever received… apart from your love,” Draco chokes out. “I cannot express what this means to me… thank you. Just like your forefather Gilbert: I shall carry it with me everywhere,” he vehemently vows. He slips the cameo back into its little bag, then stows it carefully in the pocket of his red and gold brocade waistcoat.

“Is it better than a pair of oven mitts, though?” Hermione jokes. “Perhaps not as useful, huh? I’m glad – I’m glad you like it,” she beams.

“Like it? _Ma belle lionne_ – I **love** it. As I love you. Come here, I’ll show you just how much,” Draco urges.

They step forward simultaneously, meeting in the middle for an impassioned, yet tender kiss. Draco has just begun charting the deep split of Hermione’s red skirts with his fingertips when the door rudely opens.

“Busted – you were right, Pans, they’re pashing again,” Blaise gaily broadcasts to all and sundry.

“Hey – don’t go smearing her lipstick, you wally!” Pansy admonishes. “No time for more ooey-gooey nonsense, we have to take photographs now.”

On cue, Macdolas bustles into the room, brandishing the Polaroid, while Theo enters cradling the Wizard camera. The rest of the elves and humans stream into the living room, chattering nineteen to the dozen. Kreacher slinks in last, condescending to tip Draco a minute nod as he spies him with Hermione.

 _I’d like to think Kreacher prefers me to the Weasel as a suitable partner for Hermione… but he’s probably merely granting his grudging approval because he’s a Black family house elf down to his bones_ , Draco reflects with a dry grin. He returns the gesture, keeping Hermione within the circle of his arms.

Hermione’s joyful expression makes his overfull heart thump impossibly faster. Draco bends down to whisper in her ear, as the two cameras start flashing around them.

“Granger… Hermione… my glorious goddess – are you certain you’re ready to accept my public claiming of you? I warn you now, I am going to be hard-pressed to leave your side for a moment tonight… and it’s not to late to escape upstairs, you know.” Despite his own excitement at the pride and honour of escorting Hermione to the Ball, Draco wants to be absolutely certain his plucky witch is ready for everything the night may entail.

Shaking her head pityingly, Hermione rebuts, “Malfoy… Draco… my miraculous, wizardly prince – you are forgetting that I invited you to the Ball: so inconvertibly, _I_ am publicly – and proudly – claiming you!”.

Squeezing his hand, she boldly proclaims, “Get ready, big boy – we are going to have the time of our lives this evening… you just wait and see.”

Returning the enthusiastic pressure between their hands, Draco steals a final quick kiss.

He winks at her as the cameras turn their way.

_Any time with you is the time of my life, my darling Hermione._

* * *

**Italian translations:**

_buona sera –_ good afternoon

 _amici del cuore –_ bosom buddies.

**German translations:**

_und das Blut –_ and the blood.

 _Liebste Dame –_ dearest lady.

 _das Englisch_ , _bitte –_ the English, please.

**French translations:**

_stupide –_ dickhead.

 _bien sûr –_ of course.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @Recoveringjaddict5 for generously searching for and sending me dozens of pictures of beautiful ballgowns, hairstyles and jewellery for the Gala 💜💜💜.  
> I am hopeless with fancy things and your guidance was expert & invaluable. You're amazing!!


	56. Spring Equinox Gala: Part 1 - Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gala has finally begun!
> 
> This will be a multi-chapter event; I'm uncertain yet as to how many chapters it will encompass, but there is a lot more planned for this Ball.
> 
> I hope you like the first instalment, and I apologize for any small errors: I have to go to bed and have only had time to run a cursory first edit. I will go back in tomorrow and double-check my mistakes.
> 
> Thank you all very much for reading, and for all your lovely reviews. Receiving your comments brings me such joy, and inspiration.  
> 💚🤍💜 VJ.
> 
> PS for anyone who missed it, I inserted the photos I used as inspiration for the witches' ballgowns at the very end of the last chapter (after the translations). 💗😊💗

__

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

A shiver ripples along Hermione’s spine as Draco’s warm, strong hand presses a little more firmly against the small of her back; even through the satin and velvet of her dress, his touch instantaneously zings along her nerve endings. Noticing her fine tremor, Draco bends his mouth to her ear.

“ _Ma petite_ – are you cold? Let me drape my outer robes around your shoulders,” he is already moving to shrug out of the expensive black wool garment before Hermione shakes her head and smooths her hands down his arms to still his solicitous movements.

“Thank you, but I’m fine…just eternally vulnerable to your touch, Malfoy,” she confesses, relishing in the way Draco’s eyes darken from heather to pewter grey.

Ignoring the fact they are blocking the Floo they have recently exited, he crowds a little closer, murmuring, “Are you deliberately trying to arouse me, Granger? I am having a difficult enough time keeping my resolve to not ravish you in your office until after our first dance, as it is.”

 _Ohhhh_. Hermione unconsciously sways nearer to his tall, muscular form, wondering if they might yet have time to sneak away before sitting down to dinner–

“Enough of that – we have a Dramatic Entrance to co-ordinate and execute, remember?” Pansy whisks Hermione away from her blond boyfriend by dint of hooking her arm through Hermione’s elbow and quick-stepping them over to where Luna and Ginny are standing. “Come along, Draco – you can have her back once we’ve settled on the best way to rub everyone’s noses in our unmatched beauty and grace.”

“We’d better make our way over to our dates,” Theo apologetically remarks, dropping a soft kiss on each witch’s proffered cheek. “Hurry up, Blaise – and stop craning your neck, you’ll do yourself a mischief if you keep rubbernecking.”

“Who are you searching for, anyway?” Ginny queries. “I can see the Greengrass sisters near the entry to the ballroom from here.”

“No one in particular,” Blaise interrupts, following Theo’s example by quickly kissing their faces. “Just marvelling at the crowd, that’s all.” He appears unusually distracted and discomposed as he tugs at the collar of his dark grey formal robes.

Pansy snickers. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Zabini. But go on, delude yourself into thinking you have a chance with a certain statuesque blonde Auror: I might start running my own betting pool as to when you’ll spectacularly crash and burn.”

“Har-de-har, Pans. You have the wrong end of the wand, my dear. Theo’s right, we need to get a wriggle on – I can almost hear Astoria impatiently tapping her stiletto,” Blaise swiftly changes the subject. “Ladies, you are utterly _sfarzoso_ – gorgeous – and I will beg a dance with each of you before the night is through,” he regains some of his usual smooth charm.

Waving goodbye to the pair, Hermione turns back to her girl friends. Pansy has formed them into a huddle as she authoritatively runs over her ‘plan of attack’.

“Pansy – is it really a great idea to have me situated in the middle of you all as we enter? I’m going to look like a dissolute sheik with his harem,” Draco complains.

“Listen, if people are going to talk about you anyway – give them something to really flap their gums about,” Pansy grins evilly. “Quit your carping and look aloof, you’re good at that.” She positions Luna on Draco’s other arm, and puts Ginny beside Hermione.

“Excellent. I’m going to walk slightly ahead and strut,” Pansy follows words with action as she sashays toward the wide open doors of the Ministry’s ballroom and function centre. “Let’s do this!”.

Pansy’s unabashedly smug promenade into the Gala proper puts an amused smile on Hermione’s face, helping to allay some of the anxiety she is feeling from the dozens of curious eyes already fixed upon their unusual party. There is a distinct thrum of excitation and… _vitality_ in the air tonight, Hermione decides, as the gathering crowd chitters and chatters around them.

Draco must sense her nerves: he murmurs, “We’re a team, Granger – there’s nothing this mob can throw at us that we can’t best. I have you, sweetheart.”

 ** _Merlin – I love you so, Malfoy._** Hermione doesn’t realize she has communicated her heartfelt sentiment telepathically until Draco replies in the same manner.

 ** _I love you with everything I am, Hermione. Ma glorieuse lionne._** Draco risks Pansy’s wrath by briefly stopping to raise her hand to his lips. “My dearest love.”

Confidence regained, Hermione smiles gratefully at her gorgeous lover as they resume their assured parade. Reaching the portal to the ballroom, they all come to a halt as a familiar male tenor speaks a greeting.

“Hey guys – over here.” Harry steps out of a small alcove, flanked by Gilmont and Faulkner… and Ron Weasley.

 _Eeekkkkk_. Hermione had abstractedly considered dealing with Ron’s presence here tonight; just not quite this… soon. Her easy smile stiffens as Ron’s narrowed sea-blue eyes rake over their party. He is dressed in an obviously new set of navy robes, with his usually shaggy dark copper hair clipped short and brushed off his face.

 _Shame he never made this much effort while we were dating._ Hermione cannot help the uncharitable thought that jumps into her mind. _I suppose I should say something polite._

“Hi.” _Well, that was shockingly inane_. Hermione tries again. “Good evening Harry, Ron, Aurors Gilmont and Faulkner. Is everything… progressing on schedule?”.

The silence stretches as everyone waits on Harry’s response. The black- and burgundy-robed Auror remains mute.

“Potter?” Draco prompts, as Hermione follows the direction of Harry’s captivated gaze.

Her best friend is staring at Pansy Parkinson as though he has just stumbled out of the desert and she is a satin-wrapped bottle of fresh water. For her part, Pansy’s dark emerald eyes are locked with Harry’s, her previously sassy movements frozen as the two gawk at one another.

 _Sweet Venus… if Harry’s jade eyes grow any larger, they may fall out of his head._ Hermione coughs discreetly, alarmed by the potential of early disaster. Harry hasn’t acknowledged Ginny yet; to be fair, he doesn’t appear to have noticed anyone but the sexy Slytherin witch standing six feet from him.

Luna saves the day as she moves from Hermione’s side to bestow a light hug on Harry, effectively cutting off his direct line of sight. “Hullo, Harry. Hi, Ron. How’s Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes going? Hagrid said you’ve helped many of the Hogwarts students with your recycled Quidditch Necessities program.”

“Hi, Luna. You look real pretty – I mean, you’re always pretty… Nice dress,” Ron bumbles. “Yeah, me and George are happy with the way the shop’s going, and it’s good to give back when you can.”

“Luna – lovely to see you,” Harry finally regains the power of coherent speech; Hermione is quietly diverted by his swamping blush.

“Hermione, Malfoy… Pansy. Ah… Ginny. You all look very b-beautiful,” Harry stammers. He raises his hand as if to graunch at his neatly combed black mane, but instead lowers it to fiddle with his spectacles.

“Thanks, Potter – but you’ll have to ask Hermione’s permission if you wish to dance with me later,” Draco drawls, breaking the creeping tension. “And I must insist on leading.”

Pansy’s burst of laughter is perhaps a shade too raucous, but Hermione is relieved when everyone except Harry and Ron smiles or chortles at Draco’s quip.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. Anyway – I wanted to let you all know I’ve adjusted the seating for the dinner service: Ron and I are now sitting at your table. Plus Viktor Krum – the Minister wanted to ensure Krum is amongst friends,” Harry briskly advises.

 _Aargh… bloody blithering Bundimuns._ Hermione doesn’t have to look at Draco to sense his glower. His forearm has tightened beneath her hand.

Before the objections can begin, Harry decrees, “It’s a security issue, alright? Gilmont and Faulkner will be discreetly watching over you throughout the Gala, but I am still technically on duty tonight, and it’s primarily my responsibility to keep you all safe. I won’t be budging on this – so please do not push the issue.” The steel in his voice matches his unusually stern demeanour.

Draco clears his throat. “I appreciate your diligence, Potter. You have my word I shan’t start any _unprovoked_ arguments,” he stresses, looking down his patrician nose at Ron.

Opening and closing his mouth a number of times, Ron finally settles on a succinct, “Likewise.”

Harry doesn’t waste any more time arguing the point. “Great. Let’s find our table.” He nods to his fellow Aurors, who fall in behind the seven-strong group as they traverse the ballroom floor and make their way to the adjoining function centre.

Hermione whispers to Draco as they approach ‘their’ large round table, “Malfoy – are you truly OK with this? I’m sorry, I had no idea this was part of Harry’s ‘safety program’.”

Draco tucks her against his side, his hand stroking her left hip in a gesture of comfort. “It’s fine, Granger; it’s not ideal, but I can stomach sharing a table with two of your ex-boyfriends for a few hours, if it keeps you safe from harm. I’ll simply fantasize about ripping off their heads and using them as Quaffles,” he dryly states.

“Um… I promised Viktor a waltz, when he dropped into my office yesterday,” Hermione bites her lip. “He’s very respectful, you needn’t worry he’d ever overstep…”

“Krum would live to regret such a heinous infraction, I assure you,” is Draco’s crisp reply. “There are clearly delineated boundaries with regard to my possessiveness about you, Hermione. I hope – for their sake – your previous beaus do not attempt to test those limits.”

 _Damn… why is Draco’s proprietorial attitude so… unghhh… hot!? Hermione wonders. Does it make me a bad feminist for being slightly thrilled by it? Perhaps it’s because I know he doesn’t view or treat me as a ‘possession’… but simply **his**. As he is mine._ Deciding to leave that contentious topic for another time, Hermione merely smiles reassuringly. 

Finding their place cards, Draco performs some rapid sleight-of-hand to shuffle the marker beside Hermione’s with one diagonally opposite, before he pulls out her chair and carefully tucks her into the table.

“Draco – I don’t think you should be meddling with the seating arrangements,” Hermione warns, speaking out of the side of her mouth. “This party is a shaping up to be a ticking time bomb as it is.”

Her crafty boyfriend places a kiss to her temple. “ _Ma petite_ , I am merely ensuring Krum lives to see another sunrise; and this way, Harry is seated next to Pansy. There is usually a method to my madness, Granger,” he teases.

Clucking her tongue affectionately, Hermione takes a moment to soak in her surroundings. The ballroom and Great Hall have been transformed into a veritable wonderland of blossoms, ribbons, and twinkling lights that glimmer subtly between festooned bouquets of wildflowers and herbs. The prevailing colours are white, natural greens, and shades of purple, from the palest lilac to royal hues. Repeated octagrams fashioned from sage sprigs, meadowsweet, daisies, ramsons, columbines, wood anemones, and sweet violets swing gently from magically suspended vines.

In keeping with the Druid traditions of rebirth and fertility, stylized paintings of hares, butterflies, and tiny rabbits decorate the walls. Each dining table has a central wreath of blossoms, vines and seeds, with a small basket of rune-painted eggs. Hermione bites her tongue as she witnesses Ron casually reach for an egg and thumb off the pretty outer shell.

“Those eggs are decorative, Ron – you berk,” Harry exasperatedly protests, as Ron bites it in half and pulls an unhappy face.

“Shouldn’t be on the ruddy table if you can’t eat it,” Ron grumbles, making an abortive move to return the partially consumed cackleberry to the table, before Luna magicks it away with a quick ‘Evanesco’ spell. She pats Ron’s freckled hand consolingly.

“I agree, Ronald. If you feel ill because that egg was elderly, I have an excellent stomach-settling potion in my purse. We use it on the Hippogriff herd after they’ve gorged on too many green grasshoppers,” Luna sagely offers.

“Yeah… erm, thanks, Luna. I’ll– I’ll let you know how I go,” Ron faintly acknowledges her offer of assistance.

“Serves you right for being a greedy pig, Ronniekins,” Ginny gibes as she takes the chair next to her brother.

“Leave it out, Gin – and why am I sitting next to you, anyway? Does anyone want to swap?” Ron grouses, jostling his sister as he loudly scrapes his chair to stand up. No one moves; Ron flushes red before disgruntledly flopping back into his chair.

Hermione thinks she hears Draco say something cutting beneath his breath, but chooses to ignore it. The buzz of excitement in the room is growing palpably stronger, as splendidly dressed witches and wizards flood into the grand space. Blaise and Theo – and the Greengrass sisters – are seated two tables away; Hermione isn’t surprised to see Blaise openly staring at Auror Gilmont, who is unobtrusively standing at attention beside her partner Faulkner, a few metres away from them, in front of the podium.

Gus Gilmont shows no sign of having realized Zabini’s intense regard as she confers quietly with her tall colleague. Both are dressed in scarlet Auror robes, though Hermione notes these are more fitted than their regular uniform, and sport a deeper crimson embroidery along the lapels and hems. Gilmont’s chestnut-blonde hair is up in a stunning fishtail braid that wraps regally around her head, crowned with a single pretty daisy, in a quaint, incongruous touch.

Checking Blaise’s table again, Hermione’s gaze clashes with Astoria Greengrass’s china blue eyes. Hermione tries not to recoil when Astoria shoots her a look of undiluted contempt, hoicking her small nose in the air as though she’s smelled something unpleasant.

 _Still a nasty little bitch, then._ Hermione raises an eyebrow and leans closer to Draco, smirking as her message is clearly received, if Astoria’s pink-painted curled lip is any indication.

 _Get that into you, Se_ _ῆorita Snoot-face_. Dismissing the small by-play, Hermione refocuses on her own party of friends.

Ginny is on Draco’s left, with Harry on Hermione’s right; beside Harry sits Pansy; then an empty seat (presumably for Viktor), Luna, and Ron. Pansy and Harry appear both adorable and foolish, pretending not to notice each other’s shy, sidelong glances. Ginny is observing their URST-filled non-verbal interactions with an inscrutable mien, while Ron is also glaring at the ‘friendly’ pair. Luna is looking dreamily about the Gala and humming softly as she takes it all in.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Granger?” Draco wraps his hand around hers beneath the table, tenderly stroking her palm with his fingertips.

“I am… because I’m here with you,” Hermione breathes. “You make me so happy, Draco. Thank you for being my date.” She impulsively pecks a fleeting kiss on his smiling mouth, pulling away before his seeking lips can return the caress.

“Thank you for being my _everything_ , Hermione.” The profound sincerity and affection in Draco’s voice makes Hermione’s heart miss a couple of beats. Not even Ron’s sour huff dents her ebullient reaction.

“Good evening, everybody; I offer my apologies for my tardy arrival,” Viktor Krum’s deep voice captures the table’s attention. “Ven I come through the doors, Minister Dankworth insists upon introducing me to every employee in building,” he kids with a wry smile. “It seems the Minister is very passionate fan of Quidditch.”

“Yes – he’s forever hassling my team for signed photographs,” Ginny chips in. “Don’t be surprised if he ropes you into posing for a hundred snapshots tonight, too.”

Viktor bows respectfully over Ginny’s hand. “Miss Weasley: it is indeed my honour to meet such a gifted Chaser. I shall suggest to Minister Dankworth that you replace me in any photographs tonight, hmmm?”.

“Please – call me Ginevra. The honour is all mine, Mr Krum,” Ginny bats her lashes fetchingly.

She delivers a swift elbow jab to Ron as he scoffs, “’Ginevra’? Talk about putting on the dog – oww!”.

“Then I am Viktor, and you are Ginny-evra,” the husky Bulgarian concedes. He lifts his head to smile genially at the rest of the table. “Such beautiful witches, we are blessed to sit with tonight – do you not agree, gentlemen?”.

Harry, Ron and Draco all nod, with varying degrees of formality. Viktor moves around the table, shaking hands with the men and kissing the women’s hands, before taking the seat between Luna and Pansy. “Vot is the saying you British haff? I am the thorn between two lovely roses,” he chuckles. “I know some of you think me a prick ven I first visit Hogwarts, yes? Happily, ve all grow up since then,” Viktor’s comments.

Draco chokes back a laugh at Viktor’s little joke. “Indeed.” He casts his eyes to where Ron is sniping at Ginny: the term ‘suck-up’ carries across the table.

“Some of us more than others,” Draco pithily suggests, as Hermione tugs at his hand.

“Malfoy, would you care to take a turn about the room with me? I’d like to introduce you to Mrs Sandore; she’s repeatedly expressed her desire to properly meet you,” Hermione requests.

“Of course, _ma chérie_ ,” Draco readily accedes. “We’ve plenty of time; the speeches are not scheduled to begin for another fifteen minutes.”

They rise and make their way to the other side of the function room; Hermione nods and smiles at various acquaintances and colleagues, waving brightly at Headmistress McGonagall and Hagrid. The latter seems torn between rearranging his substantial beard across his mammoth shoulders and yanking at the collar and necktie of his tweedy dark brown robes. Hermione mouths, ‘We’ll come back’, as they continue walking toward Marilda.

Before they reach her supervisor’s table, Draco halts their progress as he turns Hermione to face him, gliding his hand around her waist. “Have I told you tonight that your unrivalled beauty has wholly bewitched me, Hermione? That watching you walk down those stairs was akin to watching Aphrodite descend from the heavens?” he looks deep in her eyes, his bent platinum head no more than a few inches from her own. Somehow, Draco projects absolute sincerity and gentle teasing, his eyes crinkling attractively at the corners.

“A mite cheesy – but I’ll take it,” Hermione’s giggles are swiftly quelled as Draco touches his lips to hers, sharing a delicately mellifluous, yet impassioned kiss. She is seized with a wild urge to drag the gorgeous wizard into the nearest dark nook and ravish him to her heart’s content. The impulse doesn’t fade as Draco breaks contact and sighs regretfully.

“How long until we can sneak away for some fancy fadoodling in your poky, dusty office, my sexy little witch? I’m willing to skip dessert in favour of eating your sweet–”

“Ms Granger! How wonderful you look tonight!” Mrs Sandore’s eager tones break in before Draco can finish his doubtlessly lewd proposition. Draco’s naughty mouth folds inward as he suppresses a snicker at Hermione’s horrified reaction to the near-miss.

“Uh – thank you, Mrs Sandore. You look lovely,” Hermione recovers with a small gulp. Marilda is wearing an attractive floor-length dark green dress reminiscent of a 70s caftan, with beautiful large bluebells appliqued along the neckline and sleeves. The balding, bespectacled man beside her is dressed rather adorably in a thick-striped, brown suit and a bow tie that matches the flowers on her gown.

“This is my husband, Nigel; Nigel, this is Ms Granger – the brilliant young witch I’ve told you so much about – and her boyfriend, Lord Malfoy,” Mrs Sandore babbles, affectionately nudging Nigel forward. “Don’t they look perfect together? And look – Lord Malfoy’s vest matches Hermione’s dress, just like our outfits! I _told_ you it’s quite the done thing to harmonize, at these type of events,” she cheerily chides.

“Please, call me Draco; it’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Draco shakes Nigel’s hand and kisses Mrs Sandore’s, much to her blushing delight. “I apologize for failing to formally introduce myself when we first met, Mrs Sandore; I was in somewhat of a panic about Hermione, that night,” he refers to his mad dash through the Ministry when Hermione was attacked.

“Oh, never fear – I was beside myself, too!” Marilda exclaims. “I do hope the other perpetrators are swiftly uncovered and brought to justice. Hermione is very dear to us here at the Ministry, you know.” Her smile falters as she adds, “I wish you all the very best in your new career, Ms Granger – but you will be sorely missed, both professionally and personally. I’d – I’d hoped, that in time… Never mind, dear.” She dabs a fingertip to her wet eyes.

“There, there, love – I’m sure Ms Granger will stay in touch,” Nigel soothes, gathering his spouse in a gentle side-hug. “Can’t say as how I blame her for seeking fresh pastures, so to speak: this joint is riddled with nepotism and foolery. You should be running your Department by now, my dear,” he staunchly avers.

Patting her husband fondly on the back, Marilda beams at his praise. “You’ve always been my number one fan, Nigel – and I adore you for it.” The middle-aged couple share a tender-hearted look.

“We’d best not hold you up indefinitely, Ms Granger; the speeches are due to start any moment, I believe. I can see more of your friends vying for your attention, in any case,” Marilda indicates towards the table to their far left. “Have a lovely evening, dear, and remember that you have always done the Ministry proud. Hogwarts are blessed to have you join their staff.”

“Thank you, Mrs Sandore – that means a lot to me. I’m going to miss you too… you’re the best boss I’ve ever had,” Hermione holds back her emotional sniffles with an effort, giving Marilda a hug. Taking their leave, Draco rests his hand to her back as they turn towards the table Marilda indicated.

“Hermione! Over here!” Neville Longbottom almost topples his chair in his haste to greet her. He gives her a bashful smile as she nears. “It’s been an age since I saw you – Luna said you’re starting work as the new Professor of Arithmancy next week – that’s great! Gee, you look really beautiful tonight – I mean, you always look beautiful – not that I think your looks are important, they’re lovely, of course – I’m not saying that you are just a pretty face, I mean I think you’re wonderful in all respects–” poor Neville looks agonized as he digs his conversational hole deeper with every hurried word.

“It’s fine, Neville: I know what you mean.” Hermione kisses his embarrassed cheek as Neville hangs his head and sticks his hands in the pockets of his dark green robes. “It’s really nice to see you, too; I would have liked to have caught up with you when I interviewed at Hogwarts, but Luna said you were visiting with your grandmother.”

“Yes, I take Gran for an old fashioned high tea every Sunday morning; she still alternates between trying to feed me up on scones and warning me off for over-indulgence,” Neville chuckles. “At least her horrid old vulture hat finally bit the dust, you’ll be glad to know,” he rolls his eyes as he refers to the Longbottom matriarch’s confronting choice in headwear. Hermione laughs softly as she remembers the moth-eaten hat bobbing along Platform 9 ¾ at the start of each school year.

“Hello, Longbottom,” Draco pushes forward a little, keeping his arm around Hermione’s waist. “I may also begin a new job on the Hogwarts staffing line-up, dependent on what Headmistress McGonagall is able to arrange with the Board.”

“Didn’t realize they were that hard up for teachers that they’re willing to give Death-Eating drunks a go,” the caustic comment emanates from none other than Cormac McLaggen, sprawled in the chair opposite Neville’s. The table falls silent, each head swivelling between Draco and Cormac.

Surprisingly, Seamus Finnegan is the first to come to Malfoy’s defence. “That’s a wee bit harsh, Cormac: you know the Prophet printed a retraction for calling him that. And none of us coped real well after the War, yourself included,” the sandy-haired Irishman comments. “I’m glad I’m not famous or important enough for anyone to have followed me around with a camera when I was falling-down absolutely bladdered - out of one pub after another - in me wasted youth.”

“Ah, maybe you’re right, Seamus,” Cormac shrugs languidly, stroking the shoulder of the young brunette witch nestled into his side. “I suppose Malfoy must be doing something right, considering he’s squiring none other than Gryffindor’s famous Golden Girl on his arm,” he flashes a dazzling smile at the table at large.

Neville appears unimpressed with McLaggen’s conciliatory remark. “Seems to me you’re still rankled by Hermione not giving you the time of day when we were at school together – or any time since, Cormac.”

“Cormac's got a point though, hasn’t he?” Dean Thomas rebuts, his dark brown eyes studying Draco curiously. “It’s a fair jump from wallowing in alcoholism to being accepted on the Hogwarts staff, if you ask me. I guess it’s true, what they say… Money talks, right?”

“If you’re implying I bought my way into a job, Thomas – you can go ask McGonagall herself if she accepted a bribe. Perhaps keep your distance when you enquire, though: she’ll likely hex you into a tortoise for taking the trouble to insinuate she isn’t on the level,” Draco coolly defends. “Does anyone else care to offer an opinion? No? This is your one and only chance to have a dig at me – but I warn you, if any of you dare to criticize Hermione for dating me, or imply that her reputation is sullied because of our relationship… you’ll find out for yourselves just how ‘Dark’ my magical abilities really are.”

Nodding jerkily at Neville, Draco swivels on his heel. “Are you ready to return to our table, Granger? Excellent. Have a good night, Longbottom.” Hermione glares at everyone bar Seamus and Neville before she accepts Draco’s hand.

“And if any of you try to attack or badmouth Draco again – whether through spurious gossip, or an ill-considered formal objection to his Hogwarts posting: be prepared for me to come for you like a goddamn Valkyrie,” Hermione hisses, rage bubbling through her veins like lava. “You’re not fit to lick his dragon-leather boots.”

Draco grasps her firmly and tows her away before she can elaborate on her vicious plans for the naysayers. “Granger, don’t let them upset you, sweetheart; you know that prejudice is hard to shake, especially for Slytherin’s traditional House rivals. Forget about them – let’s enjoy a nice meal together, please. I’ll gaze adoringly at you while you perch on my lap and feed me titbits by hand, yes?” he grins.

“You’re not bothered – by what Cormac and Dean said?” Hermione frets.

“I’m only displeased that you are subjected to their uncomplimentary opinions, simply by association,” Draco declares. “I’d be more concerned if I happened to be in McLaggen’s good graces, actually: let us not forget the dolt willingly consumed a clutch of fifty Doxy eggs for the sake of a bet... then complained bitterly at his ‘misfortune’ in thoroughly sickening himself.”

“True. Although I expected better of Dean,” Hermione glumly sighs. “Ginny always spoke highly of him… they used to date, before she and Harry became a couple.”

“Perhaps Thomas is still sore about their relationship breaking down… either way, we won’t let it ruin the Gala, OK? Besides, I thought any inevitable drama would eventuate from me finally having had enough of Weasley’s acidic sneers, or Krum’s wistful peeks in your direction,” Draco confesses. “Hearing you menace a couple of Lion twits was certainly arousing… but I would prefer you channelled that fierce passion into our eventual office tryst, Granger.”

They are almost back at their table; Draco steps just out of earshot of their friends to crowd her body from behind, nibbling at her sensitive lobe and lacing his hands at the gold clasp of her red velvet belt.

“Hermione… you drive me wild… I ache for you, darling. I cannot wait to push aside that cunning front slit in the folds of your pretty dress, to slide my fingertips to your hot, damp core… I will kneel before you and use my teeth to slowly peel your miniscule red lace knickers down your silky legs– they are crimson, and lacy, aren’t they?... Yes… I will make you come with my hungry mouth, until your body is quavering from the strength of your orgasm, and your hands are tangled in my hair, torn between keeping me in place and pushing me away when your pleasure overwhelms you… You like that, don’t you, _chaton_? My beautiful witch – I will take you then, against the wall… I will stroke inside your wetness, fill you with my long, girthy cock until you scream my name and your second climax triggers my first… I will _claim_ you, Hermione. Is that what you want? Say ‘yes, Draco’,” he murmurs.

“Y-Yes, Draco,” Hermione whimpers, trembling as the images his skillful words have created cause her breath to catch and her pulse to jitter. “Claim me – I want everything you just described.”

“As do I, _mon amour_. But first – our entrées have arrived.”

Draco guides her forward; her shaky legs barely make it into her seat without collapse.

Cross as a bear, Hermione discreetly blots her warm face with her napkin, clenching her thighs together in a fruitless attempt to diminish her throbbing arousal.

Draco leers as he notices her slight movements beside him.

“Hoping the speeches don’t take too long tonight, Granger?” he smirks.

Hermione doesn’t give the cheeky wretch the satisfaction of a reply, instead turning her attention to her plate of mini lobster balls and spicy sweet chilli dipping sauce. She represses a wicked grin as she considers the best way to turn the tables on her sly, sexy, taunting lover.

Cutting into the luscious, deep-fried seafood spheres, Hermione pops a morsel into her mouth, deliberately slowing her withdrawal of the small fork from between her lips.

She delights in Draco’s dilating pupils as he watches her delicately lick clean the fine tines of her cutlery with the tiny pink tip of her tongue.

“Oh, I’m positive you’ll grow tired of the night’s events long before I do, Malfoy,” she purrs.

_We’ll see who screams whose name in my office,_ mon chéri _… especially when I put my own oral fantasy into action…_

_My beautiful, arrogant, silly wizard._


	57. Spring Equinox Gala: Part 2 - The Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys.  
> I've written this chapter a little differently.  
> It features some new P.O.V.s: namely Blaise, Harry, and Viktor, with Draco for the concluding scene.  
> I am going to go back into pertinent chapters and add the two original vignettes from 'Harry's Apology' at the end of those.  
> I hope that including the Blussie, Hansy, and Gintor content in this update is not too jarring, or disappointing. Rest assured that Dramione still remains the primary focus; the other characters would not stop talking, though.  
> Next chapter will probably feature the girls' P.O.V.s... and there is drama looming.  
> Thank you very much for all your support.  
> You keep me writing.  
> 💜🤍💚 VJ
> 
> PS 'smaragdine' means 'emerald-like'. To me, it sounds like something Gollum would say, and I couldn't resist using it XD.

__

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Blaise eyes the spare entrée plate of lemon butter scallops that Astoria Greengrass had haughtily rejected for being ‘ridiculously garlicky’. _I should take them over to Gussie and offer them to her as a peace offering… it’s a bit rough, having to attend a three course Gala dinner and not being able to sample the delectable menu._

He palms Astoria’s unused fork while her back is turned, deftly sliding it beneath the hem of his left sleeve as he gathers the scallop dish and nonchalantly rises.

“I may as well return these to the kitchen; seems a shame to let them go to waste,” Blaise murmurs, already stepping from the table.

“I wouldn’t mind eating them, actually– ouch! Mind your clodhoppers, Blaise – you just stepped on my foot!” grouses Theo.

“Save your appetite for the mains, Theo – I won’t be but a minute. Excuse me,” Blaise hustles from the group before Nott can again open his fat trap.

His pace slows as he nears Aurors Gilmont and Faulkner; Gussie has already noted his confident approach, and is watching him with a carefully blank expression. Her partner is overtly glaring, causing Blaise to recall his uncomfortable conversation with them, yesterday evening.

He’d visited the Auror division ostensibly seeking Harry (though one of his colleagues had mentioned seeing the bespectacled wizard leaving the Ministry in the company of Head Auror Pritchard Hawes, just before Blaise’s mid-afternoon business meeting with Pansy and Krum).

Strolling into Harry’s office, Blaise’s eyes had immediately zeroed in on Gus Gilmont; she’d been leaning over the desk, rifling through a tall stack of evidentiary files, the tight dirty blonde bun at the nape of her neck slightly askew. He’d barely noticed her tall partner, kneeling beside a heavy cardboard box to her right.

“Hey, Gussie – how’re things going? Any breakthroughs with Operation Acromantula I should know about?” Blaise had cheerily greeted, standing in front of the non-descript work table.

Straightening with a stiffened spine, Gus had stared at him incredulously. “Are you– are you addressing me as ‘ _Gussie’_? Seriously?? That’s ‘Auror Gilmont’ – or ‘Gilmont’ to you, Zabini,” her ripe, top-heavy mouth had perked in a tiny sneer. “Auror Potter isn’t here; you’d best owl him if you wish to know more about the case. We’re not at liberty to discuss those details.” She’d nodded coldly at the open door behind him.

Blaise had summoned his most winning, charming smile – the one he’d been told (by more than a few admiring witches) was an instant panty-dropper. “Actually… I’d like to have a word with you in private, Auror Gilmont. On a… personal matter.” He’d ramped up his toothy grin another gear, hoping to overcome the blatant disdain upon her face.

“Anything you have to say to Gus – you can say in front of me,” Auror Faulkner had intoned, rising to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the witch. “Or you can fuck off back to Level Five, where you belong.”

“Kolton – it’s OK,” Gus had laid a conciliatory hand on Faulkner’s broad shoulder, much to Blaise’s annoyance. “Give us a minute? You know what these upper echelon types are like – he won’t stop pestering until he’s said his piece.” She’d not bothered to moderate her voice overmuch, uncaring that Blaise had heard every word.

Scowling at Blaise, Faulkner had reluctantly allowed, “I’ll be right outside the doorway. Remember – if he tries anything untoward– ”

“– ‘Hex first, ask questions later’. Yeah, yeah, I got it, Kolt,” Gus had affectionately mocked. “I’ll be fine.”

Faulkner had deliberately bumped Blaise’s shoulder on his way out of the room, rumbling, “Watch yourself,” before stomping outside.

Casually crossing her arms, Gilmont had looked both bored and irritated, arching her eyebrow as she’d bluntly queried, “Well? Speak.”

“Ah… I was wondering if you’d like to come have a drink with me tonight – there’s a pub just down the road, they serve light meals too, if you’re hungry – I mean, you have to eat sometime, yeah?” Blaise had flinched at his uncharacteristic gaucheness as the bumbling proposition had tripped off his tongue. A beat or six of uncomfortable silence had followed; Blaise had been on the verge of re-couching his offer (hopefully, in markedly more suave terms) when Gus had summarily smashed it to uncompromising pieces.

“Let me get this straight, Zabini: you’re asking me out? On a date?” She’d unfolded her arms to prop her splayed fingers on the desk and leaned slightly forward.

“Eh – drinks. I was thinking drinks, with a possibility of dinner– ”

“With a high probability of trying to get beneath my robes for a quickie, I’d warrant,” Gus had ruthlessly cut off his qualified explanation. “Your ‘invitation’ is especially tacky, considering that you’re squiring Daphne Greengrass to the Gala tomorrow night, yes?” she’d thrown at him, as he’d gaped stupidly at her accusations.

“What – do you believe your philandering reputation doesn’t precede you? Or do you just not care, cushioned as you are by money and privilege and powerful connections?” she’d hissed, obviously warming to the topic.

Her eyes had flashed fire as she’d icily informed, “I suppose your tastes must be growing hopelessly jaded – but I assure you, I am nowhere near dumb enough to fall for your practised wiles, Zabini. So if you were entertaining any ideas about asking me out and seducing me for a bet – and you wouldn’t be the first to try to sweet-talk your way into my bed with the intention of bragging about ‘cracking the Arctic Amazon’ – you can consider your plans irrevocably foiled.”

“What?! No– I was being sincere, I would never– ” Blaise had hotly protested, shocked by her disparaging assumptions.

“Whatever. This conversation is finished. If you repeat your ‘offer’ again, I will consider it harassment, and report you to HR. Go away.” Gilmont had wiped her hands together in an exaggerated gesture, clearly intended to underline her contempt of him.

Blaise had struggled to not let his face reveal just how much her rejection (and low opinion) of him had wounded his feelings.

He’d finally quietly stated, “I apologize, Auror Gilmont; it was never my intention to offend you. My offer was genuine; I accept that it was unwelcome, and you have my word I won’t pursue it any further. Thank you for your time.” He’d formally bowed and departed, briefly wondering if her caramel-brown eyes had softened a little after his apology.

Kolton Faulkner had followed Blaise down the hallway and drilled a meaty finger into his shoulder as he’d demanded, “What are you about, Zabini? If you think you can treat Gus like some kind of floozy – just to add another notch to your soiled bedpost– ”

“Get your hand off me, before I snap your fat finger clean in two.” Blaise had reached breaking point, stung anew by the apparently pervasive opinion that he was nothing more than a predatory sleazeball. An emotion he’d never felt before had boiled his blood and made his hands cramp into furious fists as a highly unwelcome thought had lodged in his brain.

“What’s it to you, anyway? Are you in love with her? Are you two… a couple?” Blaise had snarled, twitching with the sudden urge to thump Faulkner fair in his stupid face.

Faulkner’s abrupt, barking laugh had done little to assuage his burning… jealousy? _But I don’t get jealous_ , Blaise had reminded himself. _Nope, definitely not jealousy. Ha._

“What Gus and I are to each other is absolutely none of your business, Zabini: but if you hurt her, you’ll answer to me. You don’t know anything about her – she’s already been through so much–” Kolton had stopped his ferocious diatribe with a visible effort.

“What does that mean? What’s happened to Gussie?” Blaise had instantly demanded, his wrath morphing to worry.

Huffing out an angry exhale, Faulkner had spoken more slowly. “That’s not my story to tell – and it’s not your place to ask her. Just leave her alone – she’s worth a thousand of you, Zabini. Piss off back to your fancy office.”

Blaise had childishly yelled, “Fuck you, Faulkner!” as the Auror had curtly swivelled on his heel and left, giving no sign he’d heard the insult.

He’d trudged to the Floo exits with none of his usual jaunty swagger, as he’d brooded over Faulkner’s cryptic warning… and Gussie’s brusque rejection.

Flinging himself into his comfy leather armchair as soon as he’d reached his house, Blaise had latched onto that silly Muggle saying… ‘plenty more jellyfish in the sea?’.

_Just because Gus Gilmont thinks I’m pond scum isn’t going to slow down Blaise Zabini! Witches are itching for the chance to hang off my arm and every word, right? Right._

He’d gone as far as thumbing through his little black book before hurling it at the wall in frustration; the soft thump had drawn his house elf Gelsomina’s attention. She’d studied him shrewdly before offering a restorative elixir, which he’d quietly refused.

Left alone once more, Blaise had finally admitted that Gussie and Faulkner’s scathing judgements about him had cut deep… deeper than he would have thought possible. _Am I really viewed as a such a thoughtless, selfish lothario? As a user of women? A rich, arrogant… lecher?_ He’d shuddered in distress.

 _I like women – OK, I’ve been with quite a few – but I **don’t** set out to use them_, he’d argued with himself. _I treat them all well… I just get… bored easily, that’s all. And I’ve never made any witch a promise I didn’t keep – they all know the score. It’s not my fault other people misjudge the love I have for the fairer sex. Hell, it’d be a crime to not share the gloriousness of The Great Zabini with willing witches worldwide!_

He’d repeated that mantra until he’d fallen into an uncomfortable slumber in the chair, waking with a stiff neck to lurch to his huge bed in the wee hours of the morning… only to dream of Gussie lying in it with him, her dark blonde hair swathed across his pillow, her tall, Rubenesque curves snuggled against him in the most intimate of ways…

Bringing himself back to the present moment with a jolt, Blaise carefully proffers the plate of seared scallops, whipping the entrée fork from his sleeve with a graceful flourish.

“We had an extra plate at our table: I thought perhaps you might like to try them – they’re very tasty,” Blaise addresses the pair together (though he only has eyes for Gussie).

To his great surprise, Gilmont comes forward to accept his offerings, while Faulkner mutters something unquestionably uncomplimentary under his breath.

“Thank you – I have been rather tempted by all the delicious smells,” Gussie admits, her lips kicking up ever so slightly at the corners.

“I can get you another fork, if you’d like to share?” Blaise diffidently offers, his mood lifting instantly at her response.

“Nah – Kolt can watch and weep,” Gussie winks mischievously. “He’s forever pilfering half my packed lunches, anyway.”

“You always make extra for me – that’s not stealing,” Kolton defends, smiling fondly at his partner. Blaise reminds himself to stay calm, though their easy camaraderie is triggering that odd feeling again. _Might just be indigestion; I ate my salt and pepper prawns quite quickly._

“I should– I should get back to my table… Um, thanks – for looking after my friends, I mean. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I just want to say how grateful I am for your help – both your help – in clearing Theo’s name, and keeping Hermione and Draco safe. So yeah – thank you,” Blaise curses inwardly at yet another rushed, bumbling monologue. _Such an eloquent diplomat, I’m not. Aargh._

“We’re just doing our job,” Faulkner gruffly replies. “Crooked wizards like Bones give all of us a bad name, unfortunately.”

“What Kolton means to say is… you’re welcome. I… ah… I might have been a little harsh, with what I said to you, yesterday– ”

“No– as I said, I never meant to upset you– ”

“Let me finish, please,” Gussie says, gently but firmly. “I– we – appreciate your support. I’d like to keep our professional interactions harmonious and productive, if we can. For the sake of the case, of course.”

“Of course,” Blaise echoes, feeling stupidly disappointed by the ‘professional’ qualifier.

“Anyway, I had no right to cast aspersions on your character the way I did... I’m hot-headed sometimes: I’m working on it, but I still tend to shoot off my mouth when I should keep it shut. I’m sorry, Mr Zabini.” The wide, guileless smile Gussie bequeaths him hits Blaise like a fist to the gut.

“Please – the name’s Blaise,” he entreats, his answering smile pleasantly stretching his cheeks.

“You’d best return to your party – I can see the elder Miss Greengrass waving at you,” Faulkner kills Blaise’s exultant buzz stone dead.

Smile fading, Gussie nods. “Thanks for the scallops.” She walks to the side of the podium with the dish, as Faulkner jerks his head and mouths, ‘Beat it’.

 _Arsehole_. Blaise pivots and glumly resigns himself to being friend-zoned. _This is a humiliating first. Hey, at least she doesn’t actively hate me. I can work with that._ A small spring returns to his steps as he weaves between the tables.

 _I can **definitely** work with that_, he avows.

* * *

Harry wishes (for the hundredth time) that some fool hadn’t swapped around the place cards before he sat down. Maybe then he wouldn’t be bloody tormented by the delicate scent of strawberries and mint that wafts his way every time Pansy Parkinson turns her beautiful head.

 _I bet Malfoy meddled with the damn things – look at him, alternately frowning at Ron and Krum every time either of them so much as glance in Hermione’s direction. He’s utterly besotted with her. How did I not guess how he felt about her at Hogwarts? Slippery Snakes… it’s a good thing I can plainly see how much he loves my best friend. Mind you, Hermione can’t take her eyes off the blond git, either. And they must believe we’re all blind to their incessant, sneaky touches…_ fondlings _, really. Hopeless, the pair of them._

Feeling smug about his singlehood for once, Harry relaxes his tight grip on his cutlery and reaches for his linen napkin… only to gasp involuntarily as his hand inadvertently brushes Pansy’s on the table, sending sparks along his skin.

“Oh – my bad, I didn’t mean…” Pansy withdraws her hand as though he’d set it afire.

“Not your fault, I wasn’t looking…” Harry is quick to beg pardon, unable to resist another peek at Pansy’s stunning smaragdine eyes. She stares intently back at him for a heartbeat, before dropping her eyes to her lap in an atypically shy gesture. Harry’s pulse careens as his eyes hungrily trace the sparkling cluster of crystals embellishing the narrow single strap and… decolletage of Pansy’s magnificent iris purple ballgown.

“Sorry,” they say together, as Hermione snickers on Harry’s left.

“Hey, Harry. _Psst_. Harry!” Steadfastly refusing to turn in Hermione’s direction, Harry finally gives in when she tugs urgently on his sleeve.

“What is it, Hermione?” Harry grumbles. “If you’re intending to take me to task about crashing your table – can it wait until tomorrow? I’ve already explained my decision.”

“When are you going to ask Pansy to dance? She’s really looking forward to it,” Hermione smugly announces, in a voice that is far too loud for Harry’s liking.

“Shhh! Hold on – what? Did Pansy tell you that? What did she say, exactly?” Harry drops his napkin in his haste to scooch a bit closer to his informant; he knocks his knee into Hermione’s as they both bend to collect the white square at the same time.

Draco beats them both to the punch, lazily floating the napkin upward with a quick ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ spell. He tucks his wand back up his sleeve as Harry disgruntledly snatches back the linen.

“Never difficult to remember you two were Muggle-raised,” Malfoy chuckles. “Use your magic, Gryffies.”

“Never mind Draco, Harry – the first morning in the townhouse, he washed the dirty dishes by hand,” Hermione divulges. “In retrospect, I think he was trying to impress me,” she naughtily pokes out her tongue at her boyfriend. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Draco looks disgustingly pleased with himself. Harry waves impatiently.

“Forget your flagrant flirting for a moment: what did you mean, Hermione? About… about the dance?” Harry asks, sotto voice. A sidelong glance confirms that Pansy is conversing with Viktor… _maybe she likes the strong, accented type? Dammit._

“Pansy’s not interested in Viktor – she’s only blushing over you tonight, Harry.” As usual, Hermione’s astute eyes miss nothing at the table. “And without breaking Pansy’s confidences: I can tell you that she is keenly anticipating being held in your arms this evening… dancing, I mean,” she winks wickedly.

“Malfoy’s had a shocking influence on you, Hermione,” Harry carps, his cheeks heating at Hermione’s innuendo. “Please stop matchmaking – we’re friends. And besides, I’m working tonight,” he emphasizes.

“Gilmont and Faulkner can hold down the fort for one measly dance, can’t they?” Hermione wheedles. “Friends who cuddle one another, huh? I know what happened in your office yesterday, Harry… there’s no use denying that you want to be a lot more to Pansy Parkinson than her friend, _amigo_.”

Startled, Harry’s verdant eyes search Hermione’s complacent face; he relaxes as he realizes she’s fishing for information. _Anyway, if Pansy **had** told her I’d… momentarily lost consciousness, Hermione would’ve been fussing over me like a mother hen immediately._

“Nice try, love… but you forget I know your tells. Your nostrils are flaring just the teeniest little bit: it’s a sure sign you’re lying,” Harry cackles at her affronted expression. “Better ask your Slytherin sweetheart for some more Occlumency tips.”

“Well, I know _something_ happened… and if you don’t whirl Pansy around the dance floor before the night is over, I’ll hit you with a ‘Tarantallegra’ spell myself,” Hermione references the Dancing jinx spell that Malfoy once used against him in the Duelling Club.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry breathes, mostly certain his best friend is joking.

Hermione merely rolls her eyes in Pansy’s direction before cuddling up to Draco again, preening like a cat as Malfoy strokes her shoulder with one pale hand. 

Looking around the table in a desperate attempt to avoid witnessing yet another manifestation of Horny Young Love, Harry is surprised to see Ron glaring suspiciously… _at me? No… at Pansy? Both of us? What’s gotten his goat? He said he was OK with sitting at the same table as Hermione and Draco._

Smiling tentatively, Harry is shocked when Ron’s scowl deepens; the redhead drops his glower to his empty plate and hunches pensively into his chair.

 _Moody bugger_ , Harry thinks, vexed by Ron’s wet blanket demeanour. He immediately feels ashamed of his censorious judgement. _Can’t be easy… seeing Hermione fall head over heels for a bloke who used to be our sworn enemy – well, adversary, I suppose. Mind you, I’m not sitting here fretting over Ginny’s obvious flirtation with Krum, am I?_

 _Should I be, though?_ Harry examines his reactions to watching his ex-girlfriend sparking with the big Bulgarian, striving for as much critical detachment as he can muster.

 _I really have moved on_ , he concludes, with no small wonderment. _Even a few months ago, the sight of Ginny fluttering her pretty eyelashes at another bloke would have flooded me with jealous resentment, but now… I wish her well. She deserves to be happy._

Buoyed by the realization, Harry turns to Pansy, before he can change his mind. He leans in to speak softly into the pink shell of her ear.

“Pansy… remember how I said I wanted to dance with you, tonight? The first slow dance – it’s mine,” Harry cockily proclaims. He surreptitiously inhales her entrancing fruity scent. _Merlin, I’ve become a creeper… Must. Not. Sniff._

“Oh!” Pansy shivers a little, but keeps her brunette head in place; Harry has to stop himself from succumbing to the impulse to nip her tender ear lobe. “Um… OK. That– that sounds nice. Good, I mean.” Her nerves bolster Harry’s confidence.

“Excellent. I can’t wait,” Harry asserts. Pulling back, he gently tucks a stray, silky black wisp behind the ear he still longs to nibble. “You look incredibly beautiful tonight, Pansy. Like an old-time movie star.” He catches her eyes with his, close enough to see his own green orbs reflected in them. Her pupils are expanded as she silently returns his regard.

The tips of their pinkie fingers touch in the faintest of caresses, as they simultaneously break eye contact and turn to the dining companions on their other side. Harry keeps his digit in place, excitement whistling through his veins, reminding him of the thrill he always gets from flying his broom.

_Hurry up and serve the other courses already – I’m aching to hold this gorgeous, sexy witch as close to me in public as propriety allows._

His anticipatory grin fades a little as considers his (at best) mediocre dancing abilities.

_Bollocks._

* * *

Viktor chews his succulent pork chops with fig and grape agrodolce with extra care, conscious that Ginny-evra is sending occasional focused glances his way. The sweet and sour sauce created by the combination of balsamic vinegar and honey is indeed delicious, but Viktor’s anxiety at wanting to create a good impression with the auburn-headed witch is causing the dish to lose some of its piquant flavour.

 _I do not vant to be looking like uncultured swine who knows not how to behave off the Quidditch pitch_ , Viktor tells himself. _I vonder if perhaps Ginny-evra forgets our brief interlude last year? She says she does not haff too much to drink after tournament, or I would never haff kissed her._

“Viktor? Are you feeling anxious about your speech?” Miss Luna’s calm question interrupts his minor reverie. He smiles benevolently at the petite blonde situated to his right.

“I vas not, until you reminded me I haff to make one soon,” he jests. “No – I am used to it now. For years I feel like a dancing bear, but speaking a few well-rehearsed words does not trouble me, anymore,” he confirms. “I am sorry, I must be staring into space like goose; I do not mean to ignore you, Miss Luna. How is your meal?” he enquires, gesturing at her plate of rich pasta.

“It’s very good, though I do think my own recipe for cauliflower Bolognese is better,” Luna nods decisively. “It loses something without the addition of a dash of Gurdyroot infusion, in my opinion.”

Viktor is spared having to respond as Luna slyly prompts, “Ginny looks fetching tonight, doesn’t she? Like a gold statuette brought to life… and her hair is such a glorious shade, against her dress.”

“Miss Ginny-evra is stunning,” Viktor fervently agrees, unable to stop his black eyes from admiring the comely Chaser once more. “She is not – with Harry Potter? They are broken down… for good, as you say?”

“Broken ‘up’; but actually, broken ‘down’ makes more sense, Viktor,” Luna muses. “Harry and Ginny are definitely done, though. They’ve both confirmed it.”

Standing up suddenly, she picks up her mains plate and cutlery. “Come, Ginny, we need to swap places for a little while. I’d like to talk to Draco and Hermione, please,” Luna nudges Ginny out of her chair with a firmness Viktor had not thought her capable of utilizing, given her customary dreamy air.

“Oh – well, alright,” a flustered Ginny picks up her own meal and flatware and obeys Luna’s directive. She looks at Viktor steadily; he wills himself not to gulp, or otherwise betray his thumping exhilaration at her nearness.

“May I try a taste of your meal, please? Here – I can trade you for a bite of my fish,” Ginny loads her fork with a chunk of salmon, slow-roasted with olives, capers, lime juice and a splash of rum. She holds it to Viktor’s parted lips, carefully popping the appetizing morsel into his mouth.

Once he has swallowed fully, Viktor diligently prepares a reciprocal taste of his pork, holding his breath as Ginny’s coral-painted mouth closes around the fork. Long lashes sweep high cheekbones as her wheat-brown eyes close in sensual appreciation of the titbit.

“Scrumptious,” she decrees, her small hand patting his as she lowers the fork back to his plate. “Thank you, Viktor.”

“You are most velcome, Ginny-evra,” Viktor husks, wiggling in his seat as his stupid body reacts to her proximity.

She laughs softly. “Just ‘Ginny’ is fine, you know. I told you that last year.”

“It is not special… and you are special. I call you Ginny-evra, if you do not object,” Viktor stubbornly insists.

He decides to broach his concerns about their… history. “May I ask, Ginny-evra: do you remember our – ahem… encounter, at Eastern European Challenge Cup? Your team loses, I take you to local pub in Vratsa… ve kiss, before I return you back to hotel?” he presses, determined to ascertain that he did not take advantage of a drunken witch. The thought alone makes him blench.

Ginny nods vigorously. “Of course I remember… I thought perhaps you’d forgotten, Viktor. I didn’t like thinking I came on like a – like a groupie. A fan girl,” she elucidates, as he frowns.

“I know of term – I do not use women in this fashion. It is abhorrent, to me. I am grieved you believe I perceived you this way,” he austerely replies, his accent thickening as his agitation grows. 

“No – you misunderstand! I meant… I thought I– threw myself at you. And you were too polite to tell me I was being unattractively forward.” Ginny fidgets with the salt shaker by her right hand, keeping her gaze averted.

“Ginny-evra, I like your boldness: on and off the playing field,” Viktor staunchly rebuts. “Also, I am hesitant… we haff Bulgarian saying, ‘If you sit still, you won’t witness a miracle’ – but too often, I freeze in seat. I am lucky man that your miracle comes to me,” he shyly confesses. “But then… I do not hear from you again, I think, Ah – the night was fun for her, no more,” he shrugs.

Biting her lip, Ginny appears troubled. “I apologize, Viktor… I had a lovely time with you, but when I got home… Harry asked me to give our relationship one more try. We weren’t together when I met you at the Cup,” she hastens to advise.

“No matter. I am big boy, I understand,” Viktor replies. “But now… you are single? Ready to mingle?” he chuckles as Ginny tips back her head and laughs unreservedly at his silly joke. _The line of her pale throat is as pure as a Grecian sculpture_ , he reverently reflects.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Ginny’s intelligent hickory-brown eyes gleam as she confirms her relationship status.

 _This is the best news I haff heard all week._ Viktor’s pleased grin plays faintly around his mouth as he attentively listens to Ginny’s account of her team’s chances in the local competition.

_I vould like the chance to mingle with you, Ginny-evra… very much._

* * *

_Merlin’s nutsack – the Weasel looks like he’d rather be pushed face-first down a disused well than continue attending this ball. Suck it up, shithead._ Draco doesn’t bother wiping the maliciously gleeful smile off his face.

“Draco… please stop sneering at Ron. I think there’s something else going on with him tonight – nothing to do with him struggling to accept our relationship,” Hermione’s sweet voice is worried as she expresses her concerns in a low tone. “Do you think he’s had a row with Harry? He keeps scowling over at him and Pansy.”

 _Hmmm. Hermione has a point._ Draco observes Weasley’s burning glower as Pansy exchanges another soft glance with Potter. An idea springs to mind.

“Did Ronniekins ever pursue Pansy? Since you dumped him?” Draco presses.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I ‘dumped’ him; it was more of a mutual agreement that our relationship wasn’t working– ”

“So you dumped him, go on–”

“ – But as far as I’m aware, Ron never dated Pansy? Have you asked her, though?” Hermione’s curiosity is clearly piqued.

Shaking his head, Draco explains, “Pansy doesn’t confide in me about her liaisons… though not from any squeamishness, I don’t think. She’s quite private, and she also has expressed her personal aversion to traditional romantic relationships, on numerous occasions. I hope Potter knows what he’s about.”

He makes a mental reminder to finally instruct Harry on the best way to handle Pansy’s prickliness, before the notoriously artless Auror inevitably trips on one of Pansy’s emotional triggers.

 _Pansy and Harry_ are _somewhat charming together – but they’re not as adorable as **us** , of course. Pfft. _

Draco’s self-satisfied rumination screeches to a halt as Hermione petitions, “Could you please ask Pansy if something happened between her and Ron? Discreetly, of course.” She simpers at him as Draco stares back, aghast.

“What?! _Ma petite_ – that really is not a good (or safe) idea… Pansy detests anyone meddling in her affairs. Business _and_ personal,” Draco stresses. “She truly would not countenance the query, let alone supply me with an answer that didn’t start with ‘Fuck’ and end with ‘you’. Please don’t ask me to front her, darling: I believe both of us would prefer my testicles to remain intact.”

Hermione slaps playfully at Draco’s upper arm. “Oh, I know you’re exaggerating, _mon_ _cœur_ – and you are one of her oldest friends. Pansy won’t mind.” She cocks her head to the side as she glibly suggests an alternative.

“Or… you could tackle Ron about it when we witches visit the bathroom en masse?”.

 _I would rather beg the gingerbread prat for fashion tips_ , Draco sourly cogitates. “Fine. I’ll ask Pansy as soon as I have a chance. It’s a good thing I love you with all my heart and soul, Granger – or you’d have a hell of a huge debt to repay for this favour,” he whines.

“Oh, really? Tell me, Malfoy… do you accept cash… or kind?” Hermione licks her lips excruciatingly slowly, taking care to seductively trace the outer borders of each vermilion-daubed labium. Draco watches raptly, entranced by the impromptu show. 

“Hunnnhhh… what? Kind – I accept payment in kind,” he gabbles, as Hermione leans close enough to kiss him… but doesn’t.

“Did you enjoy the lamb?” she enquires coquettishly.

“The lamb?” Draco repeats insensibly.

“Your main – the slow-grilled leg of lamb with minty yoghurt and salsa verde,” Hermione nods to the nearly empty plate before him.

“Yes, yes – the lamb was delectable… but I’d much prefer to be nibbling the leg of a certain two-legged curly-haired creature right now,” Draco decides to fight fire with fire. Hermione’s mouth gapes at his salacious intimation.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t wriggling helplessly in your chair every time you think about what I told you I intend to do to you tonight, Granger… I bet if I were to slide my fingers beneath that maddening slit in your superb dress, and run them up to the juncture of your thighs… slip my fingertips betwixt your smooth skin and hot little knickers… I’d find you wet and needy for me… wouldn’t I, sweetheart? Would you like me to demonstrate?” Draco quickly arranges the draped edge of the thick white tablecloth to better cover both their laps, his breathing already shallow and irregular.

Hermione turns the tables on him before he can set his lascivious plan into motion; Draco freezes as her agile little fingers scurry beneath his black outer robes and unerringly locate the buttoned fall of his trousers. She rubs the hefty bulge beneath once, twice, before her hand scrabbles at the buttons and undoes the top two, slipping inside his pants and cupping him tightly through the last layer of his fitted cotton boxers.

Gripping the edge of the table for dear life, Draco can do naught but vaguely stare straight ahead; Hermione’s incendiary words are a warm torment in his ear.

“Try to look natural – there you are, breathe, _mon chéri_ ,” she murmurs huskily, her clever fingers finding and opening the single button on the boxers, until they are skin-to-skin. “You’ve been quite the tease tonight, Draco… whispering your filthy sweet somethings in my ear, riling me up until I am indeed antsy with the need to be with you… to claim you too, my handsome, sexy wizard.’

“Does this feel good? My fingers, stretched around your hardness, spreading your slick all over your length and girth? I want you so hard for me you can barely walk, Draco… I want your mind and body to be filled with nothing but a craving to have me, take me, possess me… I am yours, Draco… but remember – you are mine too,” Hermione purrs, her initial exploratory strokes switching to a firm rhythm.

 _Ohhhhhh fuck._ “Hermione – please, stop, I am in grave danger of– of exploding,” Draco’s groaned protestation is muffled as he bites the inside of his cheeks to keep his savage impending orgasm at bay. _I never dreamed my little lioness was capable of such raunchy exploits… not that I’m complaining._

He is torn between quiet relief and colossal disappointment when Hermione tut-tuts and withdraws her nimble hand. Looking wonderfully proud of herself, she stands up to announce to the table at large, “I should go freshen up – shall we go together, ladies? Sanitary support team?”.

Luna, Ginny, and Pansy are quick to agree; they depart for the facilities in a flurry of motion, swishing fabrics, and perfume. Draco manages to unclench his hands from the tablecloth and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead before he quickly rights his trousers – and his swollen flesh.

“You OK there, Malfoy? You look overheated – was the lamb too spicy for you?” Potter pushes the water carafe closer.

“No – I’m fine,” Draco croaks, refilling his tumbler and swigging from it until the glass is drained. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it? I’m not used to being around so many other people in a public space.”

“I would’ve thought you’d be used to big crowds – you know, from your AA meetings,” Ron gibes. “Assuming that’s not just another line of bullshit you’re using to play on Hermione’s weakness for saving crippled beasts.”

“Bloody hell, Ron! You swore you wouldn’t start any trouble!” Harry growls, as Draco slides his wand into his hand.

“I _said_ I wouldn’t upset Hermione – and she’s not here, is she?” Ron argues his shaky logic as he rises to his feet; the other three wizards swiftly follow suit. “I’ve got every right to call out this dickhead, though.”

“I think you haff said enough, Mr Weasley,” Viktor looks troubled, but resolute. “Herm-own-ninny tells me yesterday that Draco Malfoy is everything to her – that he is her heart. You are saddened, but you must accept Herm-own-ninny’s decision, and move on.”

“So says the crafty codger sniffing around my baby sister,” Ron whinges. “And you, Harry – you’re gagging to be another of Pansy Parkinson’s many conquests, huh? I wish you good luck, mate – you’re going to bloody need it.” He raises his glass in a mocking salute.

 _Definitely some history behind **that** statement,_ Draco decides.

“You watch your mouth about Pansy, Ronald Weasley,” Harry snarls. “Or I’ll fucking shut it for you.”

“Ooooh, Mr Big Time Auror’s gonna throw down, is he?” Ron taunts, waggling his fingers in an exaggerated display of mock fear. “If you laid down your wand and your badge and just came at me, Harry – you wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.”

“What the hell is your problem?! What’s gotten into you, Ron? You’re supposed to be my friend…” As angry as he is, Harry’s sorrow at his long-time friend’s attack is palpable.

“Who says _I’m_ the one with the problem?” Ron snipes. His aquamarine eyes are feral as he lasers them around the table.

“That’s enough. Both of you. Weasley – I couldn’t give a Skrewt’s arse what you think of me. You lost Hermione because you didn’t treasure her, you dipshit. You can bet your last Knut I won’t ever make that mistake. No – shut up, I’m not finished,” Draco’s coldly authoritative tones silence Ron’s sullen rebuttal.

“I don’t know exactly what’s gone on between you and Pansy – but Pansy has also made a clear choice, and that’s Potter. Grow up and accept it, and stop blaming your friend for your failures. As much as I’d love to knock you out cold and drag you outside to the gutter, I won’t: but only because Hermione wouldn’t like to see you hurt. You’re not worthy of her loyalty, but I will not allow you to upset her tonight. You shan’t insult or perturb _any_ of our witches, understood?”.

Pausing for added effect, Draco glares at the Weasel as he enunciates his final warning with crisp precision. “Either sit down, paste on some semblance of a happy face, and stay quiet for the rest of the evening – or Potter calls over Gilmont and Faulkner to escort you outside. Your call.”

Ron’s face curdles, bitterness sweeping across his features like thick smog. From the corner of his eye, Draco notes Potter stealthily beckoning his Auror team closer; but Weasley chooses that moment to visibly deflate.

“I’ll settle down. I didn’t mean to go off like that… sorry, Harry.” Ron slumps back into his chair and scrubs at his face.

To his credit, Potter doesn’t jump to reassure his friend that all is instantly forgiven. “We need to talk, Ron. Not now… but soon.” Harry’s face is inscrutable, his mouth grim.

“Yeah. I know,” Weasley sighs unhappily. He opens his gloomy eyes and jerks his head to Viktor and Draco. “Don’t expect me to apologize to either of you – but I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Auror Potter. Gilmont and I wish to speak with you for a moment, if you please.” Faulkner eyes Ron with distaste; Draco assumes some of Ron’s nastiness reached the pair’s ears. Checking the room, he is gratified to note that the few curious gazes they recently attracted have returned to their own business, by and large.

Tossing down his napkin, Harry nods sharply at the other three mages. “Excuse me.”

Viktor and Draco share a look of exasperated understanding after watching Ron moodily Transfigure his own linen serviette into a pack of cards, stacking them atop one another in a pyramid foundation… only to childishly crash them into a muddled mess.

_What a wanker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special mention to @Asoreleks for coining the phrase 'Skrewt's arse'; I nicked it without your prior permission, I'm afraid. I love it. Thank you.


	58. Spring Equinox Gala: Part 3 - The Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Shawnjoell.  
> Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, and especially for your deeply suspicious theories about the identity of the villains. I LOVE reading them all.  
> I hope you will like the 'Astoria-bashing' in this chapter! I've been waiting ages to write it.
> 
> This chapter is from the witches' P.O.V.s: Gus, Hermione, Ginny, and Pansy.  
> Thank you very much to everyone who left a comment letting me know what they thought of the boys' mindsets in the previous chapter. You are really kind and supportive, and I thank you all so much for reading and reviewing.
> 
> I have used a few idioms in this chapter that probably need more explanation:  
> 'jumped-up' - someone who behaves as if they are very important, having come from a much more lowly background.  
> 'a bit of strange' - when you want to have sex with someone other than the person (or type of person) you usually get it on with, because you crave something different.  
> 'moll' - archaic English term for a woman of loose morals; the modern day definition usually relates to a gangster's girlfriend.  
> 'upstart' - a person who has suddenly achieved power or an important position and unpleasantly takes advantage of it.
> 
> Dramione sex and more drama coming up (in chapter 59), guys... thank you so much for sticking around for it.  
> 💚😊💚 VJ

__

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Augusta ‘Gus’ Gilmont waits until she is sure they are out of range of the nearest dining table to inform Harry Potter of their news.

“Auror Potter, we’ve just spoken with Dunkeld and Wessex,” Gus refers to two of their colleagues. “They came straight here after their shift change at St Mungo’s: they told us that Flint has regained full consciousness. The Healers were still running a battery of tests on him when they left.”

“What’s Flint said? Has he confessed, or named his co-conspirators?” Harry urgently demands.

Kolton answers, “No – he’s touting amnesia. Claims his last clear memory is from six months ago.” Her partner’s disgust is manifest. “Wessex reckons Flint’s trying to set up an ‘Imperius’ defence. The Healers haven’t yet been able to ascertain whether there are any medical grounds to claim actual memory loss.”

“Sly bastard – though once we’re cleared to use the Veritaserum, Flint will have a hard time clinging to that shaky lifeline,” Harry growls.

“There’s more, Auror Potter,” Gus reluctantly divulges. “Barry Bones has been released on bail. His wand is still confiscated, and he has a tracking spell placed in his person… but he’s free. For now.”

The trio share a look of mutual frustration and anger. Harry claws at his thick jet-black hair; Gus is amazed he’s gone this long without mussing it up.

“Do you want us to head to the hospital and see what we can find out about Flint?” Kolton offers. He detests the tedious waiting duties with which they are currently employed; Gus can see him jittering at the welcome thought of putting some metaphorical thumbscrews to the duplicitous Marcus Flint.

“No. It’s highly unlikely Bones will show up here, and I’m confident Flint is securely guarded at the hospital – but I want you both to watch Hermione and Draco like hawks, OK? Watch everyone at our table, actually. Trust no one,” Harry bleakly advises.

“What – not even you, sir?” Gus jests, hoping to alleviate the strained tension lines that have recently returned to her boss’s amiable face.

Harry studies her for a few moments before he sombrely replies, “I think we all realize that Flint’s groundwork for an ‘Imperius’ defence is utter bullshit… but if anyone – even me – starts acting oddly, or doesn’t promptly respond to any of your clearly stated directives… Stun them. Without hesitation, do you understand?” he stresses.

“Yes, sir,” Gus and Kolt answer in unison.

“Thanks, guys. Are you alright? Do you need me to grab you some food? I’m sorry, I should have already organized something– ” Harry seems annoyed with himself.

“Zabini already donated a plate of scallops to Gus,” Kolton blabs.

 _Thanks, mate._ Gus zings an unimpressed glare his way.

“Is Blaise hassling you, Gilmont? I’ll set him straight,” Harry bristles.

Gus holds out a placating hand. “No, it’s fine… Bla– Zabini was nice, actually. Considerate, I mean. And he’s not said or done anything untoward, Auror Potter,” she assures.

The thought of Harry chastising Blaise isn’t a welcome one. _He looked so crushed, yesterday… Don’t be stupid and naïve, witch. He’s probably perfected any number of sad puppy-dog faces to play on the sympathies of soft-hearted women. You don’t have any time for those kind of shenanigans – and even if you did, there’s Tavi to think of. You haven’t struggled and scraped and sacrificed this long to lose your way over a pair of pretty eyes and some well-rehearsed seductive patter. Wise up, Gus._

Harry appears unconvinced. “If Blaise says or does anything that makes you uncomfortable – you come straight to me, OK? There are procedures in place to quickly stomp out sexual harassment.”

“Oh, no – he’s not harassing me, Auror Potter! We understand each other, I think.” Gus’s agitation eases when Harry smiles.

“You guys know you can call me Harry, right? All this ‘Auror Potter’ business is making me feel old,” he grins ruefully.

“Yes, sir,” Gus and Kolt chorus.

“Hopeless. Alright, keep me apprised of any developments, or if anything unusual or suspicious takes place. I’d better get back to the table before Malfoy and Ron come to blows,” Harry wearily declares.

“Do you need us to handle Mr Weasley, sir?” Gus raises her eyes at Kolton’s clear avidity to engage in some action.

“Not yet, no. But keep your eye on him, please. Thanks, guys.” Harry briefly claps them on the shoulder before he returns to his party.

Kolton stretches his neck and shakes out his arms, jumping up and down a few times as he complains, “This babysitting caper is getting old, Gus.”

“Cool your jets, Kolt – would you rather be embroiled in a free-for-all duel in the middle of the ballroom floor? Don’t bother answering, your pissy face is all the reply I need,” Gus chuckles.

Her partner and best friend ceases his fidgeting for a moment, his deep blue eyes continuing to scan the bustling crowd as he gravely asks, “Gus... are you seriously contemplating giving Zabini the time of day? You know what a playboy he is, right? Not to mention, rich, Pureblood, and completely out of– " he stops abruptly.

“’Out of my league? Thanks, Kolton. It’s none of your business, but FYI: I’m not an idiot. And you’re not my brother – or my father – so you can keep your intrusive counsel to yourself, thanks,” Gus attempts to keep the hurt from her even, husky tones.

“I didn’t mean that – I was going to say, ‘out of your sphere of experience’,” Kolton gulps. “Sorry, Gus. I don’t mean to pry... I’m just worried about you. I know... I know you get lonely, and you’ve missed out on a lot of stuff – history – that someone your age would have already explored by now. Sorry,” his abashment is clear as he miserably hangs his head.

“It’s alright. Most days I feel like I’m forty, not twenty,” Gus punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Blaise Zabini’s just a... a gregarious kind of guy, you know? I’m not taking him seriously. Tavi and my job are still my primary focus.”

“OK... but if you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Kolt.” Gus smiles genially at her bestie, before her eyes seek out Zabini’s tall form across the room; a bolt of strange awareness flashes through her mind as her gaze collides with his. He doesn’t look away, though she can see Daphne Greengrass chattering nineteen to the dozen beside him. There is an intensity in the tall Slytherin’s onyx eyes that makes her rethink her casual deflection of a few moments ago.

_He doesn’t look gregarious: he looks determined. But... for what?_

Wrenching away her regard, Gus wills away a blush.

_Kolt was right – Zabini’s rarefied air isn’t something I’m ever going to aspire to._

_Not that I_ want _to,_ she reminds herself _. Not. At. All._

* * *

“Hold still, Hermione – you need a light dusting of powder, your forehead’s all shiny,” Pansy clucks, as her friend tries to shy away. “Grab her, Ginny.”

“There’s no need to gang up on me – help! Luna!” Hermione giggles as the three women plonk her down on one of the plush velveteen stools in the mirrored bathroom vestibule. _I suppose I do look a bit… het up. All Draco’s fault, of course. Not that I’m grumbling about_ that _._

“Just submit, Hermione... this won’t hurt a bit,” Luna soothes, as Pansy approaches with a loaded miniature powder puff, beryl-green eyes glinting.

“Juno’s sandals – you’d think I was coming at you with a sharpened stiletto, Pollyanna! Shut your eyes… There–” Pansy expertly pats the powder across her face. “All done, you big sook.”

Snapping shut her purple satin reticule, Pansy teases, “Serves you right for indecently groping Draco underneath the table, anyway. Way to go, Golden Girl!”.

Hermione sputters while the three other women laugh merrily at her dumbfounded expression. “What– no– I wasn’t– it’s not– _unhhh_ – ”

“Honey, your face is a dead giveaway,” Ginny snickers. “As was Draco’s, five minutes ago. You two are just filthy! You were sitting right next to Harry, no less!”. Her observation sets off a fresh burst of hilarity, though Hermione remains agape, her cheeks fiery.

“Oh, both Hermione and Draco are very open with their loving sexuality, Ginny,” Luna chimes in. “Which reminds me… you’d better double-up on your contraception charms tonight, Hermione; while Spring Equinox is not as fertile an occasion as Beltane, it’s still known to increase the chances of conception by up to seventeen percent,” she sagely explains.

“That’s an oddly specific statistic, Luna?” asks a curious Pansy.

“It’s based off my personal research into the comparative breeding habits of Gnomes, Fairies, and Pixies, Pansy – which I then used to write my Magizoology dissertation, ‘Fecundity of the Fey: Or, If Your Flutterby Bush is Rocking, Don’t Come A-Knocking,” Luna proudly informs. “I can send you a copy, if you’d like? I included a fascinating anthropological appendix about the recent resurgence of liberal feminism among urban Gnomes.”

“Sounds intriguing, Luna,” Pansy smiles. “Send us all one, please; I’d love to compare how Hermione and Draco’s randy antics compare to some sexed-up Pixies.”

“We’re not ‘randy’ – and we’re not copulating in gardens like shameless Gnomes!” Hermione vociferously defends. Her friends merely cackle louder.

“They’re not shameless, Hermione, merely misunderstood. Gnomes have quite complex familial relationships and they fornicate freely amongst low shrubbery as part of their courting rituals: it’s a show of dominance among competing females,” Luna adds.

 _I wonder if Draco’s read Luna’s thesis? It would have definintely come in handy while he was researching his elven sex ed manual. I can’t really mention it now, though; this conversation has already devolved alarmingly fast,_ Hermione inwardly groans.

“Can we change the subject, please? Why don’t we talk about the sultry looks that Ginny and Viktor are swapping like Chocolate Frog cards, huh? _And_ they’re feeding each other by hand!” Hermione leans back, clasping her hands on her knees in smug satisfaction as Ginny sniffs dismissively and fiddles with her long, silky russet locks.

“Yeah – talk about steamy!” Pansy jumps in eagerly. “Whoo-mama: that boy is fine with a capital ‘V’! Are you going to– you know–” Pansy makes a ring shape with her left thumb and forefinger, provocatively wiggling her eyebrows while dipping her other index finger through the circle a few times.

“No! Well, not tonight. I don’t think,” Ginny ruminates, hastening to add, “But… Viktor did ask me if I am ‘single – and ready to mingle’. I think he… I think he likes me.” She smiles ingenuously as their four gazes amiably meet in the huge mirror.

“And I… like him… a lot. He’s really sweet, you know? And soooo sexy,” she confesses. “I kinda wish now that Ron hadn’t torn down all his old Krum posters in a fit of rage after you were Viktor’s date at the Yule Ball, Hermione.”

 _Urgh. Ron._ Hermione’s face clouds as she hesitantly enquires, “Ginny – do you know what’s wrong with Ron? Specifically tonight, I mean.” _Damn, that sounded cruel_. “Apart from seeing me and Draco together, that is. There seems to be something else bothering him…?”.

“Ronald may be envious about the strong sexual tensions permeating the atmosphere at our table,” Luna observes. “And perhaps his longing to be similarly paired is manifesting in his heightened emotional responses?” she theorizes.

“ _You’re_ not upset about not being paired off tonight, Luna. No… Ron keeps glaring at Harry. Maybe they had a fight?” Hermione ponders.

Pansy’s voice is low as she states, “I think I know why he’s angry, Hermione… but you’re not going to like my explanation.”

Before Pansy can elucidate, an unwelcome interruption struts around the corner, dressed in a dazzling gown of seafoam-green taffeta and sequins.

Astoria Greengrass pushes past Ginny at the counter; the petite blonde makes a big production of checking her flawless maquillage, her candy-pink long nails pulling a thin cylinder of lipstick out of her silk purse. Her elder sister Daphne silently follows. She looks uncomfortable, but at least greets the quartet of witches with a slight nod.

“Well… isn’t this cosy? Tell me, are the wizards at your table running some sort of competition to see who can bring the most pathetic witch?” Astoria goes on the offensive immediately, her snobby tones dripping acid.

“Astoria, please– there’s no need to start trouble– ” Daphne mutters quietly.

“Shut up, Daphne. Why don’t you run back to your stupid date and call him out for constantly staring at that hulking Auror all night? If I wanted your moronic opinion, I’d ask for it,” Astoria snipes, as Daphne’s face falls.

“What’s your problem, Astoria? You should listen to your sister – you don’t want to get into it with us,” Ginny warns. “Walk away while you still have the chance.”

Scoffing, Astoria finishes re-lining her pursed lips before she turns around to face them properly. “My problem? The Ministry’s woefully low standards for admission to what should be an elite event – _that’s_ my problem. Look at your ragtag bunch: a notorious slut, a penniless jock, a tragic lunatic… and a jumped-up Mudblood,” Astoria points to Pansy, Ginny, Luna, and Hermione in turn.

“Draco’s clearly just amusing himself with a bit of common strange before he settles down – there isn’t any other plausible explanation as to why he’s bothering with the likes of _you_ ,” Astoria continues mercilessly, her elegant finger stabbing perilously close to Hermione’s irate face.

“As if _you’d_ ever be welcomed at Malfoy Manor… Lucius would just as soon tar and feather you as grant you admittance through the front gates,” she sneers. “You’re as cheap as your knock-off dress, Granger. And you’re not half as smart as you think you are, since you can’t see that Draco is just using you for temporary sexual gratification. I feel sorry for you, truly,” Astoria remarks triumphantly. “He needs a Pureblood wife, not some bushy-headed guttersnipe whose dopey parents gave her a name as obnoxious as her face.”

 _Oh, bitch… you didn’t._ Hermione rises off the velveteen stool, cold fury replacing her hot indignation. She waves off her three friends as they move in.

“Guys – I got this,” she assures. Stepping forward until Astoria’s finger is but a hair’s breadth from her nose, Hermione icily instructs, “Get your hag talon out of my face, Astoria – and start apologizing. To each of my friends, first; and then you can beg for my forgiveness. Don’t forget to ask pardon for insulting my parents, too.”

Finger remaining defiantly in place, Astoria laughs shrilly. “You wouldn’t dare touch me! I’m Astoria Greengrass – and you’re just some pushy upstart who happened to be in the right place at the right time when the Dark Lord went down.”

Hermione doesn’t bother to grab her wand to hex the living daylights out of the silly little cow, preferring a show of brute, ‘common’ strength. Grasping Astoria’s finger, she bends it back, whipping a now-shrieking Astoria’s hand up and around, pushing her arm up her back and crowding the fool against the counter to hold her immobile with very little effort.

“Stay back, Daphne – this is between Hermione and Astoria,” Ginny has pulled her yew wood wand on the other Greengrass sister, while Luna stands guard at the bathroom door. Pansy nods sternly as Daphne’s hands still; the brunette witch then casts a quick ‘Silencio’ as Astoria continues to wail piteously.

“I’m not hurting you, Astoria. Your finger isn’t even sprained – but you _will_ cease your caterwauling, and you _will_ listen to me. If you refuse to apologize after I’m done speaking, I’ll Transfigure you and your sister into Pygmy Puffs for the night, and tell your table that you suffered food poisoning and went straight home,” Hermione vows.

“Shut up, slag,” Pansy spits the words at Astoria. “I’d tell you to get fucked, but you wouldn’t enjoy it, you horrid, vicious, vain little moll.”

“Your ugly heart spoils your pretty face, Miss Greengrass,” Luna sorrowfully tells the blubbering witch. “Projecting your insecurities and self-hatred onto others will simply rot away your joy and reward you with nothing but unhappiness and loneliness, I’m afraid.”

“I’d rather be a poor athlete than a rich, sour shrew,” Ginny growls. “The only thing ‘pure’ about you is your poisoned soul, Astoria.”

“Guys – give me the con, OK? Let me speak,” Hermione amends, as her mates react blankly to her Trekkie slang. “But thank you, for the back-up.”

She tut-tuts as Astoria reaches back a clawing hand; the attempt to fight back is short-lived as Hermione angles the chicken-wing grip a little higher.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”.

“Astoria, your bitterness and vitriol is pointless. I can understand that your snotty nose is out of joint because Blaise originally told you that Draco would be your escort tonight; but Draco never wanted to take you anywhere. Theo only agreed to be your replacement date after Blaise offered him a carte blanche marker for a future reciprocal favour. No one wants to be around you, Astoria – because no one likes you.”

Disregarding Astoria’s sniffling sobs, Hermione keeps on. “You’re petty, and spiteful, and dreadfully elitist. You obviously understand nothing about positive, healthy adult relationships. It’s past time you got off your skinny arse and found some meaningful employment, instead of polishing yourself up like an empty trophy, to be somehow ‘won’ by the highest bidder. Do you know what happens to trophies, Astoria? They are placed on a high shelf, forgotten, to gather dust. You’ve relied on your physical attractiveness your entire life, to the detriment of developing a decent personality. Time to drop your Pureblood persona and become a real, flawed, worthwhile human being.”

“You don’t know me – you’ve– you’ve no right to judge me like this!” Astoria bleats. Her baby blue eyes are distorted by tears… _possibly genuine this time_ , Hermione decides, the sight making her soften a little, despite her ire.

“No, I don’t know you… does anyone? Do you even know yourself? Is this really the woman you want to be, Astoria? Slinging slurs and malice at your fellow witches, just to shore up your own feeble self-esteem? You could be beautiful – inside and out – if you just laid down your arsenal and tried for a genuine connection with another human being,” Hermione concludes.

She releases Astoria; the diminutive blonde huddles against the counter, unresisting as her sister tentatively pulls her into a loose hug and carefully strokes her hair. Luna gently places a handful of clean tissues into Daphne’s hand; the elder sibling accepts them with a grateful tilt of her chin and begins applying them to Astoria’s crumpled visage.

The room is silent as Astoria’s tears roll down her face. Clutching her sister for support, she eventually composes herself.

“I’m sorry… for what I said. To… all of you. And… about your parents, Hermione. Can I go now?” Astoria’s subdued voice is a dismal whisper.

“Not exactly a rousing apology,” Pansy complains, brows beetling. “And you were warned not to start any shit, so don’t expect me to feel sorry for you. You’re lucky Hermione is essentially gooey-hearted.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Astoria has retained enough vim to bite back. “Just leave me alone, OK? I won’t say anything else rude to you.”

“Or _about_ us,” Ginny presses. “If I hear you’ve been talking smack about Hermione and Draco, I’ll stick my biggest Quaffle ball up your nasty arse. _Ungreased_ ,” she emphasizes.

“Good one, Gin,” Pansy and the youngest Weasley perform a congratulatory fist-bump.

“Come on, let’s go,” Hermione is tired of the drama. _I feel a little guilty for being so hard on her… but Pansy’s right, Astoria did deliberately start a row. Stuff her._

As they walk quietly out of the bathroom, Pansy achieves the last word.

“By the way – Hermione’s dress is an original Elie Saab; as if I’d let her wear a designer knock-off,” she sneers. “Kiss my slutty bum, Astoria.”

Hermione drags out Pansy, sending Daphne an apologetic grimace over the top of Astoria’s pale, bent head.

“That was interesting, and dramatic,” Luna breezily opines, as they stroll back to the table. “This night is really broadening my horizons: thank you, ladies.”

 _Oh, Luna. You darling._ Hermione squeezes her Ravenclaw buddy’s waist affectionately.

_Hopefully, the only drama remaining is Draco finally following through on his sexual promises… before, or after the dancing?_

Catching her tall blond lover’s eye as they approach their table, she delights in his slow, sizzling smile as he hungrily drinks her in.

 _Before – let it be before_ , Hermione fervently prays, her pulse thumping.

_I am damn near ready to combust!_

* * *

Ginny claps enthusiastically as Viktor finishes his speech on the podium; she is pleasantly surprised by his confident oratory abilities. Though public speaking is evidently not something he particularly enjoys participating in, Viktor managed to draw the attention of the burbling, restless crowd almost immediately, using a few funny anecdotes from his Quidditch career – and even a sly, witty dig at Minister Dankworth’s obsession with the sport – to win over the room.

Viktor gives a final little bow, his gaze scanning the crowd until it settles upon their table. His candid smile broadens as he drops an almost imperceptible wink at Ginny. She ignores her friends’ sniggers and her brother’s aggravated sigh, choosing to send back a far saucier wink of her own.

“You’ve made him blush – isn’t he the sweetest?” Pansy admiringly comments.

“He’s not blushing - it’s hot up on the stage,” Harry crabbily defers. “Krum’s not nearly as cute as you witches make him out to be.”

 _Is Harry disturbed by my interest in Viktor?_ Ginny is relieved to discover that Harry’s attention is wholly centred on Pansy. _Aha – he’s just jealous of Pansy’s throwaway comment. Phew. They’re darned cute together,_ Ginny marvels. _Good for you, Harry._

 _Thank Venus, I am no longer preoccupied with Harry to the point of obsession._ Ginny cringes as she considers some of her disgraceful past behaviours in their long-term relationship. _I was so jealous of his friendship with Hermione… the special bond that the Golden Trio had… I always felt excluded from their inner circle. Instead of focusing on developing my own personality, I twisted myself in knots trying to be the woman that I thought Harry wanted. Not too bright, Ginevra._

Shaking her head regretfully, Ginny reminds herself to focus on the present, not the past. Hearing another faint, sad vocalization from her brother beside her, she lays a hand on his tense arm.

“Ron… are you OK? Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“What – so you can take the piss out of me and tell me to grow up, like everyone else at this bloody table…? No, thanks,” Ron morosely replies.

Ginny tries again. “Ron. I’m not being facetious, or critical. I promise. C’mon, I mean it… I care about you, you know. It was always you and me against the world when we were kids, remember?” she cajoles, worried by Ron’s pervasive apathy. “I won’t judge you… I just want to be your supportive sister again… if you’ll let me.”

Ron gives her a long, considering look, stress lines etched on his freckled face. “No judgement?”.

“No judgement, I swear,” Ginny pats his arm again. “A shoulder to cry on and sisterly support, that’s all.”

Swinging his legs to the side to better converse, Ron mumbles, “I think I’ve messed up my life, Gin. I dropped out of the Auror program because I couldn’t hack it– ”

“You realized it wasn’t for you, and you made a brave and intelligent decision to move forward, Ron,” Ginny rapidly interjects. “You’re too hard on yourself, bro.”

“– and I wrecked my relationship with Hermione by taking her for granted and making no effort to see her needs were met,” Ron rolls on, showing no signs he heard Ginny’s correction.

“Honestly, Ron: I don’t think you and Hermione were ever well-suited,” Ginny offers. “That’s not your fault, or hers; it just is what it is.”

“Yeah… but I was still a sorry excuse of a boyfriend. You can’t deny that, Ginny.”

“Umm… no. Sorry, Ron. But hey – you’re man enough to admit you were wrong, and you’ve learnt from your mistakes, right?”.

He shrugs guardedly in reply.

“I know George initially only gave me a go in the shop because Mum and Dad begged him to – no, don’t sugar-coat that, too. He told me as much, when he blasted me for being a lazy, self-indulgent sod, and threatened to sack me. At least I’m happy with my work effort now, I suppose,” Ron sits up a little straighter.

“So you should be – you’ve done wonders with your sports-based expansions, and your charitable foundation is awesome,” Ginny warmly praises. “I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Gin. That means– that means a lot,” Ron chokes a little, gulping at his tumbler of pumpkin juice and making a funny, grumpy face. “Wish that were Butterbeer – but I suppose our table got an immediate ban on anything alcoholic because of Tall, Pale, and Pratty,” he nods sideways in Draco’s direction.

Ginny smiles as she scolds, “Shhh! At least you didn’t call him Ferret, I guess.”

“Malfoy’s still a stuck-up jerk – but I can see how much he loves her. Don’t repeat that, Gin,” Ron grouses. “And – well, I realized recently that I’ve treated witches poorly… I got a taste of my own medicine, and now my nose is being rubbed in it,” he cryptically enunciates.

“I dunno – I feel like everyone’s moving on, and I’m just stupid old Ronnikins, still living in the attic bedroom and being a burden on his family and friends. I need to grow up, Ginny… but I– I don’t know where to start,” he mumbles, big hands flexing in aimless gestures of uncertainty and frustration.

Ginny pinches his cheek gently, grinning as Ron irritably bats away her fingers.

“Hey – Ron, everyone feels like that… everyone has moments of self-doubt, dark nights when you lie awake thinking you’ve missed so many opportunities, and hopelessly messed up your life. And then you wake up and look at your sad, haggard reflection… and you laugh at yourself for being such a dramatic fool, and remember you’re still in your twenties, and you survived a war – you _fought_ a war and you helped defeat an evil demon when you were still a ruddy teenager, OK?!? Cut yourself some slack, bud.”

“Do you… feel like that too, Gin? Really?” Ron breathes in amazement, as she nods assent. “But you – you always seem so confident, and popular – you’ve got a brilliant career, and you’re smart, too.”

“Ron, did I not move home because my long-term relationship went belly-up, and I didn’t have the funds or the fortitude to set up my own place? Am I not right there with you, letting Mum fuss over us, feed us, do our laundry and basically treat us like overgrown teenagers?” Ginny wryly points out. “I think we both need a helping hand in the young adult growth and maturation department, don’t you?”.

Ron awkwardly pulls Ginny closer to bump foreheads. “We’re gonna be OK, do you reckon, Ginny?”. He sounds brighter than he has since they first sat down.

“Oof – geez, Ron, your head’s as hard as a house brick,” Ginny cavils. “Yeah – we’ll be fine. We should probably think about moving out of The Burrow, though: I know it’s convenient – and cheap – but you have to leave the nest if you want to fly, correct?” she prods.

Ron’s spontaneous smile lightens Ginny’s worries about her brother’s fraught mental state. “Agreed – but I volunteer _you_ to tell Mum we’re going! She’ll sulk for a week, you know.”

Ginny puffs out a mock-aggrieved breath. “Sure… but I’ll tell her it was your idea,” she chuckles, nervily smoothing out the filmy netted fabric of her lower skirt as she spies Viktor striding purposefully back to their table.

Her giddy heart speeds up as she registers how intently Viktor is watching her… watching him. Memories of their unexpectedly incendiary liaison last year engulf her mind; the clean, spicy taste of his firm, wide lips against hers; the breathtaking dichotomy of his immense strength with his careful, gentle touches; the gravelly endearments he’d whispered against her mouth in a charming mash-up of accented English and Bulgarian; his insistence on seeing her safely inside her hotel room, despite her disappointment at his refusal to come in with her to finish what they’d started.

“I do not vant to be on list of regrets for you, Ginny-evra,” Viktor had rumbled, cupping her head between his massive hands for a last, lingering smooch. “I am patient man… and I believe that if time is right for you, for us – you come back, _da_? Lock the door behind me, _mila_. Good night.”

As she now beams at the strong, darkly handsome wizard sliding into the chair next to her, Ginny hopes her uninhibited welcome – and acceptance – is wreathed across her face.

 _You were mostly right, Viktor… when the time was right for us…_ you _came back._

* * *

Pansy steels herself for an unavoidably unpleasant conversation. _I need to tell Hermione, before she hears it from the horse’s mouth… more like the horse’s arse, in Ron Weasley’s case. And then… I guess I should tell Harry. Fuck._

“Has something happened, Pansy? You look… troubled,” Harry whispers, concern evident in his tenor tones. He reaches for her hand, flipping it palm-up on the table to delicately stroke the afferent skin; Pansy quivers like a tuning fork in instant response.

With an effort, she slips from his grasp as she stands up. “We got into a stoush with Astoria Greengrass – but Hermione annihilated her. Mentally, not physically, don’t fret,” Pansy assures, as Harry’s eyes round behind his glasses. “It’s fine– I’m fine, I mean. Just have to talk with Hermione for a moment. Please excuse me,” she mumbles.

“Hermione? May I have a word with you, please?” Pansy quietly requests. “Don’t look so peeved, Draco – I’ll return her to you within five minutes, you big possessive baby.”

Draco reluctantly stops forking bites of tiramisu into Hermione’s mouth, waiting for his girlfriend to swallow the last morsel before kissing her passionately. Hermione blinks dazedly as he finally pulls away, using his thumb to wipe a droplet of mascarpone cream from the corner of her mouth, before transferring it to his own. “Delicious,” he smugly proclaims.

 _Fuck’s sake._ Pansy grabs Hermione as she sways back in Draco’s direction. “You guys are really pushing the envelope tonight – come on, Pollyanna. He’s not going anywhere,” Pansy steers them to a quieter spot to the far side of the podium, ensuring Hermione’s back is to their table.

“Hello? Hello? Are you still in there, Hermione? Do I need to slap you out of it?” Pansy peers into Hermione’s logy chocolate eyes as she mocks her friend’s love-struck demeanour.

“Hey! No slapping!” Hermione sucks in a cleansing breath, shaking her head as if to clear it. Noting Pansy’s disparagingly hiked eyebrow, she argues, “He’s my soulmate, OK? Now, what’s up?”.

“I have to tell you why Ron Weasley has been glaring at us… well, at me, I suppose… all night. And before I do, I just want to say that I never thought this would be an issue– it meant absolutely nothing, and we weren’t even friendly then– you and I, I mean– ”

“You slept with Ron, didn’t you,” Hermione carefully states, as Pansy wheezes in shock. “Pansy, Draco already guessed that might be the case. I won’t say I’m not… erm, surprised, but I’m not bothered by it. Truly. Whatever went on with you and Ron – did it happen after I broke up with him? Or… when we were still together? I’m sorry to pry – I suppose it doesn’t really matter, what’s done is done– ”

“March 1st – I stumbled across Ron – literally – in the lower field at the Lovegoods’ place, in Ottery St Catchpole,” Pansy blurts. “He was nude, it was dark… I was a feeling a bit horny, and I wanted to teach him a lesson about using witches for casual sex… so I took him home and basically used him as a walking, talking vibrator.”

Pressing at her temples, Pansy avoids looking at her new friend as she clarifies, “I called him ‘Big Red’, I didn’t let him kiss me – hell, I made it perfectly clear that he was not to do anything without my express permission… and once I came, I rolled away and went to bed – alone. I didn’t _sleep_ with Ron – I had completely casual sex with him, once. He spent the rest of the night on my couch and Apparated home in the morning. He was a bit too drunk to do so the night before – but I made sure he was sober enough to give consent, I made absolutely certain of that,” Pansy underlines, loathing the thought that Hermione might think her capable of taking advantage.

Concluding her awkward confession, Pansy tells Hermione, “I don’t regret it – we were both single, willing adults. I scratched an itch and used the experience as an object lesson in forced empathy. The only lament I have is that I sent him home wearing my best cashmere throw rug – which he never saw fit to return, I might add.” She folds her arms, annoyed anew by the sheer lack of basic manners on Ron’s part.

Hermione tips back her chestnut head to guffaw loudly; Pansy stares at her in astonishment… and no small relief.

“You’re not… angry? If I’d known you were going to become one of my best friends, I wouldn’t have touched Ron with a sterilized barge pole,” Pansy vigorously avouches. “And if I’d known…” _No. Don’t say it – you’ll jinx things, for sure. You always do_ , she reminds herself.

“… If you’d known that Harry was going to fall head over heels for you?” Hermione shrewdly finishes. Pansy flushes, negating the outrageous statement with a swift jerk of her chin.

“Look, I can’t promise that Harry won’t be somewhat… taken aback; but he isn’t a prig. And you’ve nothing to regret or be ashamed about, of course,” she emphasizes.

Astoria’s vile jeers float back into Pansy’s head without her conscious volition. “You don’t – you don’t think I’m a… slut?”. She winces at the word she’s spent years trying to outrun… _trying to forget_.

“Don’t you dare let Astoria get to you!” Hermione fiercely hisses, gripping Pansy by her bare shoulders as though she intends to shake some sense into her. “She knew exactly which of our buttons to press for maximum damage, didn’t she?! You are most definitely _not_ a slut – hell, Pansy, I wish I were more like you – you’re a goddamn queen, and a boss, and a role model for witches everywhere! That rotten little beast – I should have tied her scurrilous tongue in a knot…” Hermione trails off, actually growling now.

“Easy, Pollyanna,” Pansy snickers, her fear of rejection and criticism greatly alleviated. “I thought I should tell you about Ron before he blabs it in front of the whole table – I don’t know him well enough to judge his level of discretion.”

“His impulse control is traditionally rather poor,” Hermione sighs. “Thanks, Pansy. You’re a dear friend – and thank you so much for all your help with tonight. I’d have been quite lost without you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pansy regains some of her usual brassy bluster. “Honestly, I’m surprised Draco didn’t take one look at you and immediately whisk you back upstairs for the rest of the evening! Please, can you two piss off already and work off your boiling lust? It’s driving the rest of the table crazy,” she groans.

Hooking their elbows together, Hermione grins impishly. “Once the speeches are over, I fully intend on having my wicked way with Draco in the privacy of my office; can you do me a favour by convincing Harry that we don’t need anyone following us up there? Please?” she coaxes.

“Yeah, yeah – I’ll do what I can… on the proviso you quit bullying Harry into asking me to dance, Golden Girl,” Pansy grouches. “I don’t want an unwilling partner… in anything.”

“Ha! Harry can’t keep his eyes – or his hands off you, Pansy. I’m just helping to speed up the process a tad,” Hermione’s eyes twinkle.

They are back at the table; Draco immediately scoops Hermione into his lap. Harry stands, solicitously pulling out Pansy’s chair.

“About bloody time,” Draco carps. “And Potter tells me that Astoria Greengrass had the absolute temerity to provoke you in the bathroom? What happened – and I’ll hear the full particulars of it, nothing less,” he autocratically demands.

“We bested her, Malfoy – don’t fash yourself about it,” Hermione placates, raking her fingers through Draco’s flaxen hair.

“I must insist, Granger,” he pompously maintains, while Pansy and Harry roll their eyes in unison.

Pansy decides to spill the beans herself, pithily describing the malevolent insults Astoria bandied about, and Hermione’s kick-arse response.

“And when we departed, Astoria was still crying on Daphne’s shoulder,” she exultantly describes. “She’ll think twice before she comes for our crew ever again.”

“I’m going to ruin her. I’ll demolish her family’s finances, leaving her penniless and begging in the streets,” Draco savagely pronounces. “Come Monday morning, Astoria Greengrass will be wishing for a Time-Turner and praying to Merlin that someone will take pity on her unkind, useless hide.”

“Draco! I absolutely forbid it – and you don’t want to cross me on this,” Hermione returns to her own chair, the better to remonstrate with her furious boyfriend. “I think Astoria might be inspired to change her catty ways, if she takes some time to consider what I said to her.”

“She insulted your honour, your intelligence, your heritage, your name, and our relationship, Hermione – I will not allow such heinous infractions to go unpunished,” Draco stiffly contends.

Hermione cocks her head. “Well, if you won’t see reason, I guess I won’t…” she whispers the rest of her sentence into the reddening shell of Draco’s ear. Despite her straining efforts, Pansy fails to learn the conclusion.

“You make an excellent point, _ma petite_ : I bow to your superior wit and judgement,” Draco performs an about-face with impressive rapidity. “Perhaps we could adjourn to your office, to further discuss the topic?”.

“No, you don’t – not without accompaniment,” Harry jumps up as Draco begins to squire Hermione from the table. “You both promised, remember?”.

“Send Gilmont and Faulkner to the end of the hall – we shan’t be long,” Draco airily waves at the Auror team. “No one comes inside though – or they’ll live to regret it.” His pale hand dips to the generous curve of Hermione’s bum, squeezing strongly as she giggles.

“Malfoy! Oi! Wait!” Harry exasperatedly rumples at his hair before summoning his colleagues to follow the amorous pair. He repeats Draco’s haughty instructions; they hurry out of the vast space.

“Let them go: at least this way we aren’t forced to witness them audaciously mauling each other all night,” Pansy grins at a petulant-looking Harry. She reaches for his warm hand before she realizes what she’s doing; Harry holds on as she tries to pull away.

He links their fingers more securely as he quietly admits, “I’m mostly bothered because I had intended for Gilmont and Faulkner to keep watch on the pair of lovable twits while we danced, Pansy… and now, I have to wait. I really want to hold you in my arms.” He brings her trembling hand to his lips, slowly kissing the inside of her wrist.

 _He must be able to feel my pulse jittering beneath his mouth._ _Oh, Circe… this man is killing me softly with his tenderness._ Feeling reckless, Pansy wears her heart on her sleeve for once.

“I can’t wait either… Harry.” Revelling in the way his pupils blow wide as she speaks his given name, Pansy ignores the alarmed little voice in her brain hollering at her to shut the hell up.

Instead of extricating her digits from his, she scrapes her chair closer, the better to facilitate their handhold without stretching.

_I am going to slow dance with Harry James Potter; and I am bloody well going to enjoy every second of it._

_You bet I am._

* * *

**Bulgarian translations:**

_da_ – yes

 _mila_ – honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special mention to @krankykittie for commenting, "Who pissed in [Ron's] pumpkin juice??" about the last chapter. I have not been able to stop laughing since. Thank you 🤣🤣🤣


	59. Spring Equinox Gala: Part 4 - Combustion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Razzbri - thank you so much for always 'liking' my FB posts, Brianna, and for your constant readership and supportive comments.
> 
> Special thanks also to @sweeteangel1 for fixing and vastly improving the French, and my loyal beta reader and dear friend @Recoveringjaddict5.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still reading this fic, and hopefully enjoying it. I feel like I should apologize for the majority of this chapter being unadulterated Dramione smut... I have no excuse. 
> 
> The next chapter will see the re-introduction of the unidentified roofie villain, and serious drama. 
> 
> Much love from VJ  
> 🧡😊💗

__

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

“Malfoy, slow down – I'm not used to these heels,” Hermione gasps, as Draco powers out of the elevator and through the foyer of Level Two. “My legs aren’t as long as yours – _mmmphff_!”. Utilizing his graceful athleticism, Draco pivots to sweep her into his arms, his pace dropping only marginally as he charges down the corridor leading to her temporary office. Lacing her arms around his neck, Hermione waves feebly over his shoulder at Gilmont and Faulkner as they exit the other elevator to follow them.

“I wasn’t hinting that you had to carry me, Draco,” she chides. “I’m getting better at walking in these shoes – I didn’t want to risk my ankles by running in them, though.”

“Trust me, _ma petite_ : holding you against me is mostly a self-serving gesture,” Draco smugly admits. “Your risqué stunt at the table nearly pushed me over the edge… I would prefer to– _erupt_ with you in private; the sooner we get to your office, the better.”

“The girls made fun of us for being lewd at the table,” Hermione whines. “I wasn’t _that_ obvious, was I? Draco? Hey!” she squawks, as her boyfriend merely lifts his eyebrows.

“Hermione, you… stimulated me to within seconds of a roaring orgasm, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

“Well, I won’t be spontaneously… _lusty_ , ever again, since I made such a hash of it – ”

Draco stops dead. “Look at me, my beautiful, sexy, amazing witch. You were perfect – you _are_ perfect. Never doubt how much I want you – and how much I appreciate you showing me that you want me, too,” he earnestly imparts. “No, I was simply concerned that I was going to ‘arrive at the end of my sentimental journey’ ahead of schedule.”

“Oh. So… you liked me… ‘stretching your leather’, hmmm?” Hermione replies with another anachronistic sexual euphemism, grinning as she feathers her fingers through Draco’s satiny hair.

“I should have known better than to attempt to best you at dirty word-play,” Draco laughs, stepping forward again until they are standing before her office door. He sets her back onto her feet. “Release your wards, please.”

Hermione complies, a heady sense of carnal excitation and primal agitation making her movements jittery and her words breathless. The feeling heightens as soon as she steps through the portal; Draco swoops on her like a dark angel, slamming shut the door and spinning her around. He cradles her head gently even as he wedges her back to the smooth old wood in one ruthless motion.

“M-Malfoy, wait, wait– we should cast– _ooh!_ – we should cast a ‘Muffliato’, Gilmont and Faulkner are– ”

Growling, Draco breaks off feasting on her neck to perform the quick charm. He turns on her desk lamp with an impatient flick of his wrist. His eyes are glimmering with a certain wildness that makes Hermione’s sex pulse in desperate anticipation.

 _He looks as though he barely has control of himself… I don’t think I’ve ever seen Draco so… savagely passionate before. For me… he really wants me. Me._ She thrills anew at the realization.

“You’ll address me as Draco, Hermione. I want to hear my name on your lips constantly… I want to know that _you_ know who is buried deep inside you, whose fingers and tongue and cock are owning you, tonight.” His voice is stern and ragged, his gaze roving over her from head to toe and back again in a lascivious loop.

For form’s sake, Hermione objects, “ _Owning_ me? You don’t own me– ” The rest of her token protestation is lost on a keening moan as Draco bites down onto the special spot at the intersection of her neck and collarbone, suckling hard.

 _That’s going to leave a mark._ It is her sole coherent thought as Hermione begins to slide down the wall, bolstered immediately by Draco’s hands on her hips, holding her in place as he laves her throat mercilessly. Her eyes close instinctively; her nervous system is already close to overload.

“Look at me. Say my name. I am going to fuck you, Hermione – I cannot be gentle, not tonight. Tell me you want this, tell me you want me, before I go any further.” Beneath the autocratic declarations, Hermione hears Draco’s frantic need for her full consent and participation.

“I want this – I want you, Draco Lucius Malfoy.” Hermione exhales deeply. “Fuck me, Draco – I need this, too. Claim me, _mon cœur_. Claim me hard.”

 _"Je vais lécher ta chatte jusqu'à ce que tu jouisses encore et encore… Je vais te baiser jusqu'à ce que tu ne puisses plus marcher… Je vais te stimuler jusqu'à ce que tu sois impuissante sous les tremblements qui secoueront ton corps…”_ Draco’s fingertips go straight to the high split of her skirt, skating beneath the elastic side of her scanty scarlet knickers to dip into her swollen folds. He repeats his guttural pronouncement in English: “I’m going to lick your pussy until you come again and again… I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk… I'm going to play with you until you're helpless to the tremors that wrack your body.”

Hermione shudders at both his explicit words and his sure, stroking hand.

“Fuck – look how wet you are, Hermione,” he hisses, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean as she watches, panting with helpless arousal. “Hold still.”

Bunching her full red satin skirts up to her hips, Draco drops to his knees, apparently hell-bent on following through on his earlier promise of fervent cunnilingus. Hermione cries out when he nips at her sensitive lower belly, his teeth dragging at her lingerie; Hermione eagerly reaches down to help remove them, only to have her hands lightly smacked away.

“This is _my_ job – yours is to stay upright and spectacularly come on my face,” he lewdly advises. “You understand I would rip these off you right now, if we didn’t have to return to our table? I won’t have any other men chancing a glance at your sweet honeypot,” Draco snarls. “I want to fucking rip out their hearts as it is – every time another man so much as looks your way.”

The rampant possessiveness in Draco’s harsh voice makes her even wetter. Hermione whimpers as Draco applies himself to peeling her knickers down her legs with his mouth, his lips tracing down her shaky lower limbs until his blond head nudges her left calf to lift, to pull the lacy underwear clear.

He spreads her trembling legs a little wider, holding her thighs apart with firm hands. _"J'ai passé toute la journée à penser à te baiser, chérie…_ I spent all day thinking of fucking you, darling; I’m going to make you come so hard,” he vows. “Tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop.”

“Don’t– don’t you dare stop, Draco. Please,” Hermione clutches at her heavy skirts, giving herself over to the marvellous experience of Draco expertly tonguing her sex; he begins with a bold open-mouthed kiss, tonguing her labia open with flat stripes and suckles. She realizes he is still growling and humming, the vibrations adding an extra dimension to the sheer overall eroticism of their tryst.

“Draco – harder, please, harder–” Hermione sobs, delighted when he immediately obeys, plunging his stiffened tongue inside her channel and rubbing against her inner front wall. Her hands leave her dress, gripping his hair as she grinds her hips frenziedly against his face. Her body is aflame, magic joining sexual arousal to prickle at every inch of exposed skin.

Her wizardly lover responds by moving his left hand to her dripping pussy, his mouth raising to suck at her clit as he thrusts three fingers deep inside her, twisting and shuttling them in a hard, fast pace. It is all Hermione can do to remain on her feet; starbursts of gold, red, and orange are shivering in the air between them, joy dancing along her nerves and centering in her sensitized loins. The sly, sexy devil eases his strokes and suckles every time Hermione thinks she’s going to climax, driving her (literally) back up the wall.

“Let me come, damn you,” Hermione moans, aware that he’s deliberately ‘edging’ her.

“Say my name and maybe I’ll oblige,” Draco withdraws again, looking up from beneath his disordered platinum fringe with a feral grin, his face glossy with her slickness. Seeing the evidence of her arousal marking his features makes Hermione ever more desperate to reach her peak.

“Draco– make me come, you sexy bastard!” Hermione yanks him back to where she needs him most, choosing to ignore his self-satisfied chortle as he obeys her demands instantly.

The combination of Draco’s skilled, pumping fingers and the bold caress of his hot tongue on her core push her higher and higher; Hermione is only vaguely aware that she is shrieking his name over and over (as he’d earlier prophesied). Her thighs clamp his head in place as her orgasm finally detonates.

She rides out the euphoria with a long groan of bliss, involuntarily thumping her head back against the wall with every shocking burst of pure libidinous rapture. Tears leaking down her cheeks, Hermione loses track of time and space, her existence narrowed down to the pleasure Draco is bequeathing; his hands and lips remain busy as he prolongs every last drop of sensation from her apogee.

 _Well… damn. That was… that was epic._ Hermione weakly opens one eye, relieved to see that Draco’s hair appears to be still attached to his head (though in a terribly sexy state of dishevelment). He continues to pluck ripples of sensation from her soaking sex with little nibbles, though his hands have moved to prop her slumped, enervated form more securely in place.

Giving her one final hard kiss, Draco springs upright to crowd into her. The savage, primitive expression he has worn since they entered her office has intensified; he watches her now with a thrilling combination of pride, desire, and searing cupidity on his handsome face. The hot pulse in her veins spikes anew at his clear desire for her.

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you come– and you taste so good, Hermione,” Draco rumbles, licking his lips. “Did you enjoy that, _ma petite_? Do you want more? I will wait until you’re ready – but I am aching to bury myself deep in your sopping wet quim, my naughty little witch.” He restlessly bumps his hips into hers; the rock-hard bulge in his pants sparks a fresh wave of raging lust at her core.

Inhaling sharply, Hermione nods, amazed at how quickly her libido has recovered after being blown apart by his expert oral and digital ministrations. She reaches for the fastening of his trousers as she huskily bids, “Take off your robes, Draco – now.”

Shucking his black robes with lighting speed, Draco groans as she frees him from his pants, scrabbling at his boxers until they are low on his hips and his long, rigid cock is hot and heavy in her hands.

“How did you describe your big cock earlier, Draco… ‘girthy’, I think you said? Is that right?” Hermione teases, thumbing the tip before smearing his pre-come all along his length with her palms. He makes a noise halfway between a whimper and a growl as she continues to manipulate his warm, distended flesh.

“Don’t tease me, Hermione – let me fuck you, sweetheart,” Draco grabs her hips, lowering his head to plunder her mouth. Her own musky taste lingers on his lips… salty and earthy, but not unpleasant. She returns his caress, feeling reinvigorated… aching, and needy once more. Fidgeting in his tight hold, Hermione remembers a glaring oversight – possibly just in time.

“The contraceptive charm! Cast one too, please – Luna warned us about Spring Equinox increasing fertility by seventeen percent!” Hermione finally manages to extricate her vine wood wand from its narrow pocket to mutter, “ _Proprieque Dicitur”._ Draco follows suit.

“’Seventeen percent’… how on earth…?” he muses.

“I’ll tell you later – hurry, I need you inside me,” Hermione wraps her eager fingers around his tumid hardness again, impatiently guiding him to the entrance of her tight, wet passage.

Draco resists her urgings for a moment, his engorged bellend tantalizing her by going no further. “Hermione – I meant what I said – I’m going to fuck you hard, _mon amour_. Are you ready? Are you with me?”

Tilting up her hips, Hermione snakes up her right leg to curl around Draco’s. “Do you need a written invitation, or wha– _ohhhhh_ ,” she cries out as he sheaths himself inside her with one powerful surge.

“You’re _mine_ , Hermione Jean Granger – you have always been mine. I claim you, Hermione. I have to– I have to have you,” Draco grunts, staring intensely into her eyes as the strong muscles of his back and buttocks begin to flex. Hermione’s back arches as she pushes forward, meeting him stroke for powerful stroke.

“I– I claim you, Draco Lucius Malfoy – you’re _mine,_ too– take me, as I take you– ” Hermione keeps their gazes locked as they find a brutal, pounding rhythm. Draco lifts her higher, his tunnelling cock stimulating her clitoris on the upswing and her inner wall on the downward withdrawal.

 _We’ve never been this basic… this ferociously **wild** before_, Hermione wonders, as the smacking sounds of their primitive joining echo in the tiny office. Heat and power radiate off their fused bodies, each scrape and slide of their mostly still-clothed forms adding to the near-barbaric intensity of the moment.

“Hermione – I’m crazy for you, _ma petite_ – I never want to let you go,” Draco’s voice is a gravelly rasp, his breathing as erratic and sawing as her own. “I want you to feel you come apart on my cock– _ahhh_ – ”

His eyes briefly shutter as he somehow picks up another gear; even in their frenzied coupling, Draco is careful to not crush her against the door. He uses his superior strength to lift her up and down, adding a twist to his hips that has her inner muscles immediately bearing down in involuntary response. She dimly hopes that the Muffliato charm also muffles the thumping door as it rattles in its frame.

 _Holy Hippogriffs – it’s a wonder my heart hasn’t given out._ Hermione is close to being wholly overwhelmed by the mad passion they are creating; her second apex is already hurtling toward her like a rogue meteor.

Draco rasps between harsh breaths: “Hermione– I can’t get enough of you– I want you so badly– the more I have you, the more I need– I _need_ you– ah, fuck– fuck me – _merde_ , you’re squeezing me so impossibly tight– _ma chérie_ , come for me– come for me sweetheart!” he roars, driving his pelvis deep and fast as she claws at his neck and back, scrunching up his black tuxedo shirt.

“ _Ohhhh_ fuck – fuck, Draco, Draco I’m coming – don’t stop, _pleasepleaseplease_ don’t stop– ” Hermione yields to the maelstrom of sensation blasting her senses, convulsing in unrestrained shudders and jerks, her inner muscles clamping on Draco as she keens uninhibitedly. He shouts her name, hips stuttering as his own orgasm seizes him powerfully. Hermione’s sensitive tissues register each hot spurt of release and pounding thrust; she holds onto his shoulders for dear life as her knees wobble.

Through her damp lashes, Hermione slowly becomes aware that their magic is illumining the whole room, making the desk lamp superfluous as the multi-coloured sorcerous dots swell and dance around their joined forms. Occasionally, a stray pinprick of light brushes affectionately against her cheek or brow, a tiny spark of heat and joy.

Draco’s bolstering grip on her buttocks eases a little, as his urgent lunges scale down to gentler nudges. Opening her eyes fully, Hermione is smugly proud of how utterly wrecked her gorgeous wizard appears. His hair is actually knotted in places from her grabby hands, his red bow tie is half-undone and hopelessly askew, and liberal patches of sweat mark his jet shirt and flushed face.

 _Eh… I suppose I look equally as destroyed. But damn… that was so worth Pansy inevitably scolding me for messing up my appearance, when we return to the table._ Hermione sighs in disappointment as she feels Draco finally disengaging from her blissed-out body.

“I’m sorry, _ma petite_ … I am afraid my legs are going to give out,” Draco explains softly, tenderly kissing her parted lips. “Are you alright, Hermione? I didn’t – I didn’t hurt you?” he anxiously enquires. His hands run compulsively over her arms, dipping down to check her tummy and hips. He carefully kneels to help assist her back into her lacy crimson kickers, raining little kisses on her exposed legs as he draws up her underwear and fixes her dress back down into position.

“You certainly didn’t hurt me, Draco – though I have to admit, you absolutely rocked my world again,” Hermione assures, giggling as Draco teasingly snaps the side elastic of her panties before standing upright before her. She helps him pull up his pants, tuck in his shirt, and re-fasten his trousers, her hands impishly grazing at his groin as he groans.

“Of course I did,” the arrogant blond prat nods. “But then again – you absolutely rocked mine,” he smiles. “You always do… Have I told you lately how much I love you, Hermione? How my heart belongs to you, and you alone? You _are_ my world, darling. My gorgeous, brilliant, sexy witch… I love you.”

“I love– I love you too, Draco. With– with everything I am,” Hermione chokes, wiping at her wet cheeks with some embarrassment. “I’m sorry – I just feel things – _everything_ – so deeply, with you.”

“Hey, don’t ever apologize for that!” Draco chides, pulling her against him in a gentle hug. “It’s the same for me, you know.”

Snuggling happily into his arms (being mindful not to scratch Draco’s shoulder with the gold laurel headband), Hermione regretfully comments, “I suppose we should think about returning to the Gala… but we should clean each other up a bit, first. Do I look… terribly ravished?” she pulls away to allow him to scrutinize her presentation.

“Hmm… I wouldn’t say ‘terribly’… ‘thoroughly’ ravished, yes,” Draco jokes, with an ogling wink. “I’m kidding! Here, let me help restore you to rights; though I refuse to glamour away the hickeys on your neck and shoulders – I want everyone to see them, and know who put them there,” he decrees.

“You’re wicked – but that’s fine: I’ve scratched at your neck, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Hermione retorts. “Let me just run a few drying and cleansing charms on you, though – and your hair is a bird’s nest, I’ll cast a combing spell,” she whips out her wand and performs the incantations, fussing at the last few strands of his lovely fair hair with her fingers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Draco briefly nuzzles at her neck, snickering as she pushes him away before he can increase the diameter of the biggest love bite on her throat. “Alright – now, I’m not great with hair charms, but let me see what I can do…” he begins muttering a few restorative spells.

His words die off suddenly. Draco reaches for her left arm, flipping it palm-up and peering at it intently.

“Hermione… did you put covering make-up on your scar? When you were getting dressed?” he asks urgently, his voice deep and serious.

“No… Pansy asked me if I wanted some, but I told her I didn’t need it,” Hermione blinks, unable to see the horrid etched slur on her arm, due to Draco’s masking hand. “Why? Is it inflamed? That happens sometimes, it doesn’t worry me like it used to– ”

“It’s fading – your scar’s fading.” Draco blurts, encircling her wrist and lifting her forearm. “I thought it might be a trick of the light – but it’s actually healing, Hermione. Look.”

Their soul-bond magic light display has dissipated a little, but the office remains brightly-lit. Hermione stares at her rotten ‘Mudblood’ scar, astonished to discover that Draco is correct. The cursed letters still mark her olive skin… but the redness has definitely faded to a dull pink, and the weird tails on some of the letters have disappeared altogether.

“Lucius mentioned that our mated magical cores might work together in ‘mysterious ways’,” Draco quietly informs. “I should have asked him to clarify – I was feeling squeamish after he alluded to our… sexual connection,” his ears redden.

“Draco – your Dark Mark! Quick, roll up your left sleeve– ” Hermione impatiently scrambles to do it herself, hampered by his expensive ruby and gold cufflinks… in the shape of tiny lion heads, she belatedly notices.

 _Such a closet sweetheart_. Her heart thuds in awed delight, even as she mock-grouches, “Help me, please; and of course it has to be cufflinks, no bog standard buttons for Lord Malfoy.”

“It’s a tuxedo dress shirt – naturally, it requires cufflinks,” Draco’s disdainful affront at the thought of slipping formal standards makes her snigger. “Leave it – you’ll rip the sleeve, my brusque little heathen. There– ” he expertly undoes the cufflink and flips up the cuff three times, his fingers freezing as his Morsmordre tattoo is completely revealed.

Hermione reaches out with a shaky hand, hovering above the skull-and-snake design until Draco tips his head in a minute nod.

“It’s changing, too… look, Draco – the ink is dark grey, not black,” Hermione whispers, lightly stroking the despised Mark. He shivers beneath her touch.

“But we… but we didn’t consciously decide to – to heal one another,” Draco says, stunned. “I don’t know…”

“Our magic knows. What else did Lucy tell you? Draco?” Hermione prompts, as her boyfriend gulps.

“He said – he said that if we are truly soul-bonded, we can potentially… call on each other’s powers, in times of need, or illness. And as we become more comfortable with each other – with our bond, our combined magic strengthens. I thought he was talking poppycock, old wizards’ tales… I’m sorry.” Draco’s shellshocked mien starts to clear. He ravels down his sleeve and absently reattaches the lion’s head cufflink.

“Wow. That’s… wow.” Hermione’s usual verbosity deserts her. “Why aren’t there more texts about this?! I really need to check the Hogwarts library – I’ll ask Minerva if I may be granted early access…” she muses decisively.

Draco’s slow smile widens to a mega-watt beam as he crushes her to him in unbridled joy. “Your clever studiousness never fails to enchant me, Granger. You’d live in a library if you could, wouldn’t you?” he remarks.

“Only if you lived there with me,” she shyly admits. Scooping Draco’s formal robes off the floor, she shakes them out before holding them out for him to don. “Let’s go back… I want to dance with you, Malfoy. Like… like I wished we’d danced, at the Yule Ball, all those years ago. You looked so handsome – I probably shouldn’t feed your healthy ego by telling you this, but I was envious of Pansy, that night. You didn’t seem like your usual scoundrel self at all, really,” she razzes.

“Lovely,” Draco carps, though he is still smiling. “I’ve yearned to hold you in my arms on a dance floor for longer than I care to admit, _ma petite_. Let’s show Potter and Pansy how it’s properly done.” He twitches a stray curl back into her loose braid, before taking her hand and opening the door.

_And here I thought this night couldn’t get much better… boy, was I wrong._

Hermione puts an extra swish in her step as she prances out the door.

* * *

“Finally!” Harry grumbles, as Hermione and Draco languidly stroll back into the function room. “Bloody hell, you’re both lousy with love bites and scratches – no, don’t bother to reply, you look disgustingly pleased with yourselves. Just sit down and stay put while Pansy and I dance,” he tetchily instructs.

“Nice one, Pollyanna,” Pansy snickers, as Harry holds out an authoritative hand to lead her from the table. “You look well– ”

“Pansy!” Hermione hisses.

“ – loved. What did you think I was going to say? Shame on you, you dirty little bird,” Pansy guffaws as Hermione’s face pinkens. “I’m surprised you can still blush, considering what you’ve obviously been doing with the Lord of the Manor,” she points to a complacent Draco. “I hope – for our sakes – you worked it out of your systems for the evening.”

“I refuse to dignify that rude query with a response,” Hermione primly ripostes, dropping a sly wink as Harry scoffs. “Go on, have fun – and make sure you hold Harry tightly, he’s not the most confident dancer.”

“Thanks, love,” Harry mutters. “Try to stay out of trouble for the next five minutes, that’s all I ask.” He hustles Pansy away from the group, his work-roughened hand resting firmly on her hip. Pansy acerbically warns herself to settle down, as her pulse skitters stupidly at Harry’s touch.

_It’s just a dance. Breathe. Enjoy yourself. Just because people are staring at you with their eyes on stalks – that merely means they’re blown away with what a handsome couple we make, right? They’re not judging you… they’re not asking themselves what The Boy Who Lived is doing with the likes of **you**. _

“Pansy? What’s wrong? Did you – do you not wish to dance?” Harry must have sensed her turmoil; he turns her to face him, before they step onto the dance floor proper. He is close enough to kiss; Pansy doesn’t want to admit how tempted she is to do just that.

“I’m worried that I– I feel like people are wondering what you’re doing– with me,” Pansy confesses, hating the feeling of needy vulnerability that is taking over her mind (and apparently loosening her tongue). “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Bruck-bruck-bruck. Cluck-cluck-cluck. Ber-kirk!” Harry suddenly chitters, further drawing the attention of the couples around them. He starts to make a funny trotting motion, head bobbing oddly.

“Harry – what the fuck are you doing?” Pansy snips in a low tone, equal parts alarmed and amused.

“Acting the rooster to your chicken, of course.” Harry cluck-cluck-clucks them to the middle of the dance floor, grinning cheerfully. “Since you’re foolishly concerned about the opinions of strangers – let them focus their stupid gazes on me, instead. Cock-a-doodle-do!” he actually throws back his head as he warbles the last.

“Harry! Cut it out, you maniac!” Pansy can’t quell her helpless laughter, as she slaps a hand over his smiling mouth. He mumbles something unintelligible against her palm, his breath warm. “What?” she takes away her muffling fingers.

He folds her hand in his, guiding it to his shoulder, before his own hands slide to the curves of her waist. Dipping his head, Harry softly speaks, “I said: if people are staring at you, Pansy… it’s because you’re so gorgeous. I’ve never seen a more beautiful, strong, vibrant woman, Miss Parkinson. Don’t you dare imply that this – _us_ – is somehow wrong, or scandalous. I’m the luckiest man in this room – and they know it. Dance with me, please?”

 _Who knew Harry Potter was so irresistibly romantic?_ Pansy is hopelessly lost to his unpractised, sincere charm. His splendid green eyes crinkle at the corners as he continues to grin down at her. The music has switched to a slow love ballad, the lead singer crooning something about ‘magic nights’ _. Trite… but it works._

Pansy nods her assent, frightened she’ll embarrass herself horribly if she tries to speak. She hesitantly cuddles a little closer into the brunet Auror, her breath quietly catching as his heartbeat thumps against her cheek. Harry seems content to take small shuffling steps, his capable hands gliding over her back in delicious light circles. Pansy quivers as his fingertips brush just above the low back of her silk gown.

“See? Hermione was just being mean – I’m a perfectly competent dancer,” Harry murmurs, as Pansy closes her eyes in happiness.

“You’re a pretty good swayer – I’ll give you that,” Pansy chuckles. “This is… this is nice, Harry.” _This is wonderful,_ she thinks, but daren’t say.

“Nice – pfft. Don’t make me start up again with the chicken noises, Pansy,” Harry goads; she can hear the smile in his voice.

“No, please! No more Rooster Harry… OK, this is lovely.” _And sweet, and sexy… and dangerously, uncommonly intimate,_ Pansy realizes with a pang. _Uncommon for me, anyway. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I’m scared silly,_ she acknowledges to herself.

Releasing a sad little sough against the red wool of his formal Auror robes, Pansy lets herself forget – just for a moment – her long-held assertion that she isn’t looking for anything serious. _Maybe I can take a chance on Harry… maybe I can eventually trust him enough to explain some of why I keep myself – my life – so structured… so guarded. Maybe…_

“Can I cut in?” the unwelcome voice resounds beside her ear. Snapping open her eyes, Pansy is horrified to see Ron Weasley standing beside them. _Oh, fuck no._

“No!” she and Harry reply together. Pansy stiffens as Ron’s expression cycles through hurt, resentment… and lastly, spite.

“What – I’m good enough to take home for the night for a quick shag – but not worthy of a simple dance?” Ron speaks loudly enough for half the ruddy ballroom to hear; Pansy notes scandalized eyes whipping around to avidly goggle at the escalating confrontation. What troubles her most is Harry’s instinctual tension – and his loosened grip on her body, as Ron’s caustic declaration hangs in the air.

Dread lodging heavily in her belly and throat, Pansy disengages from Harry, stepping back to register transparent shock, disappointment… and condemnation on his grim face, his narrowed gaze flicking between her and his long-time pal.

“You– you slept with Ron?” The unmistakable judgement infused into Harry’s whispered question hits her as hard as a slap across the face. Pansy goes on the ‘offensive defensive’ immediately, her pride stung… and her heart quailing.

“No– I fucked him. On his birthday, apparently. Found him in a dark field, took him home, screwed him on my couch,” she drawls, inspecting her lilac-painted fingernails and adopting a pose of insouciant world-weariness. _As befits the painted whore. Might as well live down to the low expectations._ “I certainly didn’t allow him into my _bed_ – I’ve never been that hard up,” she quips bitterly. “But then, what else would you expect from the Parkinson slut?”.

“Oh.” Harry’s hands convulsively crimp into fists, his aspect growing ever more closed and blank. Pansy turns on Ron.

“You happy now, Weasley? Got your petty revenge? Who were you hoping to strike harder: the witch who used you as a dildo, or your best mate? You stupid, immature, pathetic little man,” she scornfully snarls, each word a carefully-enunciated verbal icicle. “I’d rather dance with the devil himself than let you touch me ever again, you fuckstick.”

 _I have to get out of here before I start crying – there is no way I could live with myself if I had a bloody meltdown in the sodding ballroom._ Pansy forces herself to slow down, her eyes already burning with angry tears as she casually rotates on her spindly heels and looks for the nearest exit.

“Pansy – wait – I didn’t mean – “ she quickens her pace, steadfastly ignoring Harry’s belated response, and his agitated footsteps behind her.

She has almost made it to her seat when Harry’s hand on her shoulder stops her jittery forward motion.

“Pansy. Please, I want to apologize – I really didn’t mean to insinuate– ” She refuses to turn her head as Harry stutters behind her.

“I saw your face, Potter. I saw your revulsion when you realized I’d had sex with him. It doesn’t matter what you say to me now – _I saw your face_. Leave me alone - forever.” Pansy recites the words as though she’s reading from the dinner menu, her mind busily tamping down the boiling furnace of her messy emotional state.

“No, no – I was surprised, that’s all– ”

“I said LEAVE ME ALONE! I’m not doing this – why can’t you just leave me alone!” Pansy yanks herself clear, vaguely perceiving the shocked faces of the rest of their party as she hurtles past the table and toward the far corridor. Chairs shriek discordantly as they are rudely pushed back; Hermione makes an abortive grab at her, but thankfully misses. Pansy clatters down the hallway leading to the elevators, her hands holding her long purplish skirts out of the way. She is grateful that her skillset includes running in stilettos. _I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry._

“What have you fucking done to her, Potter?” Draco bellows, his hands tangling in the front of Harry’s robes as the Auror tries to tear past him in pursuit.

“Draco, let him go, we need to make sure Pansy’s OK,” Hermione prises his fingers loose. “Hurry! She’s already out of sight!”.

“Gilmont, Faulkner, with me!” Harry calls, as the Auror pair hurry over. “Everyone else, stay put.”

“Bollocks to that – she’s our friend. We’re coming with you,” Draco coldly rebukes. “Viktor, will you please stay here with Ginny and Luna? We’ll be back as soon as we find Pansy.”

“Of course. Go, go,” Viktor shakes his head warningly and wraps his arms around a wriggling Ginny. “Miss Luna, I can trust to not bolt.”

Hermione and Draco fall in behind Harry, Gilmont, and Faulkner, their wands already drawn.

“She went this way,” Harry points to the far left side of the branched corridor.

“I swear, Potter– if anything happens to her because she ran from you– ”

“If you’re going to threaten me instead of being marginally useful, you can fu– ”

“Stop it! The pair of you! When we find Pansy, you can sort out your differences then. But if you’re going to bicker like a couple of kindergarten kids, I’ll Stun you both myself,” Hermione vows. “Focus.”

Draco and Harry nod curtly, though Draco snidely mutters, “The Weasel was behind this, wasn’t he? Fatheaded, sour-graped, childish little shit. I’m going to punch him fair in his moronic mug for this.”

“Get in line,” Harry growls. “And shut up.”

* * *

**French translations:**

_" Je vais lécher ta chatte jusqu'à ce que tu jouisses encore et encore… Je vais te baiser jusqu'à tu ne peux pas marcher… Je vais te tripoter jusqu'à tu es impuissant à les tremblements qui secouent ton corps…”_

I’m going to lick your pussy until you come again and again… I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk… I'm going to play with you until you're helpless to the tremors that wrack your body.

 _"J'ai passé toute la journée à penser à te baiser, chérie"_ \- I spent all day thinking of fucking you, darling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is interested, the full story of what happened between Pansy and Ron is fully detailed in the ficlet 'Birthday Brawls, Babies & Butterbeers'.
> 
> The link is: [Birthday Brawls, Babies & Butterbeers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217887)
> 
> xo VJ


	60. Spring Equinox Gala: Part 5 - The Unmasking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will repeat the specific trigger warnings at the start of the chapter proper, but please be aware that this material is fairly dark.  
> If you aren't comfortable continuing, message me on Tumblr or Facebook, and I will happily summarize the chapter content for you:  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/valancyjane74  
> https://www.facebook.com/valancyjane74/
> 
> I never wish to exacerbate mental health issues, so I urge you to NOT READ this if the following topics may trigger you:  
> Allusions to rape, past sexual abuse, non-con, rape culture; actual sexual assault, violence, bondage, misogyny, sexism, hostage situations, explicit language, and angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> Sixty chapters later... the other villain is finally revealed... Eeekkkkkk...
> 
> Thank you to everyone who shared their theories and hunches with me: I appreciate your feedback so much, and I hope you find this update plausibly satisfying. 
> 
> Much love to you all.  
> 🖤🖤🖤 VJ

****Trigger warnings: allusions to rape, past sexual abuse, non-con, rape culture; actual sexual assault, violence, bondage, misogyny, sexism, hostage situations, explicit language, and angst****

****

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Pansy hikes up her skirt again, putting on a burst of speed as she hears her name being called from the corridor she’s recently skedaddled down. Her tear-blurred vision and burning need to isolate herself in order to lick her wounds in private had resulted in her spending the better part of ten minutes cantering confusedly about the rabbit warren of back hallways and storage rooms between the ballroom and the main Atrium. Fortunately, her path had not crossed Harry’s; Pansy had recognized his worried voice yelling her name, along with Hermione and Draco.

_I just need to get to the Departure Floos and go home… I’m not going to cry here… I won’t let them steal the final shreds of my tattered dignity…_ The compulsive, looping thoughts quicken her hurtling steps. _What a fucking disaster – I should have known better than to think I could enjoy a fancy night out with my… friends._ _And as for Ron Weasley – I’ll look up the best dick-diseasing curses as a matter of highest priority. Utter. Immature. Arse._

Pausing briefly, Pansy attempts to take stock of exactly where she is in this shadowy labyrinth. _Which crazy fool designed this floor, anyway – it’s got more twists and turns than a Muggle detective story_. Her breath burns in her lungs as she darts down a wider, vaguely familiar corridor.

The image of Harry’s censorious face swims before her stinging eyes. _How dare he judge me… I’ve every right to indulge in casual sex if I choose to. Morgana’s kirtle – what a wretched prig Mr High and Mighty Potter turned out to be._ _And to think I believed – No._

Pansy wills her thoughts away from her sad little hopes. _This is what happens when you forget your resolve to steer clear of emotional entanglements,_ she lectures her silly, crushed heart. _Sprinting through the bowels of the Ministry of Magic like a bloody lunatic… in Italian stilettos. They’ll be wrecked by the time I make it home._

Her frantic pace slows as she rounds the last corner and spies the Floos. _Thank Merlin_. Pansy wraps her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of how eerily isolated the vast space feels. _I don’t think I’ve ever been here without another creature in sight… talk about a creepy vibe._

She is before the first Floo and reaching for the obligatory pinch of green powder when a hand bands around her torso, another covering her mouth; a hard body presses along her back and legs as a low male voice warns, “Don’t fight me, witch – or I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear. Arms up, there’s a good girl.”

Cold steel at her windpipe, Pansy freezes. Her right hand twitches toward the cunningly disguised wand pocket tucked beneath the gathered cuff at her right hip, stilling as the tip of the knife pricks her skin.

“Did I not just say I’d cut your throat, you daft bitch?” the man behind her hisses, as her cry of pain is silenced by his palm. The knife twists cruelly, a thin rivulet of blood running down Pansy’s neck.

“I’m taking my hand away to retrieve your wand – if you make the slightest noise, I’ll kill you. Your choice, slut.” A gloved hand jerks free her wand; the loss of her trusty weapon hits home how dire her situation just became.

Pansy closes her eyes, as her terror and panic threaten to devolve into full hysteria. _Think, Parkinson, think – maybe an elbow to his guts?_ The knife point digs in harder, as though her mystery assailant can hear her agitated thoughts. His harsh tone is a repulsively intimate sibilation in her ear. Beneath her fear, Pansy strains as something in his disguised voice sparks recognition. _I_ know _this bastard… concentrate… I must **concentrate** …_

“Ah-ah-ah, Little Flower… you’re not the blossom I intended to pluck, but you’ll do quite well as a tethered goat to stake, hmmm? Bear in mind you’re thoroughly dispensable, and don’t try anything idiotically courageous – you’re a Snake, sweetie, not a Lion. You’ll do exactly as I say, if you want to stay alive.”

Her involuntary sob at the man’s use of the abhorrent endearment – a cooing nickname that has haunted her nightmares for years – seems to please him; he chuckles in delight as Pansy’s muscles lock in horrified reaction.

“Now, now, we’ll address that delicious reaction a little later, pet: what I need you to focus on at this moment is screaming for me – as loud as you can… as though your life depended on it, one might say?” he directs, his free hand rising from her waist to fondle at her right breast through the bodice of her purple silk gown, squeezing cruelly as she gasps in pain.

“No– no, please,” Pansy whimpers, lost to foul memories she’d fought so hard to overcome. “Don’t…”

Her pleas are ignored as he viciously twists her nipple, laughing softly as a scream rips from her throat, reverberating throughout the vast, empty chamber.

“That’s the spirit, sweetness,” he grunts approvingly. “Once more now, with feeling.” His large hand clamps over her breast, constricting the tender flesh with merciless force.

Pansy isn’t aware of how long her second scream lasts: misery and pain flood her senses, as the tears she’d fought so hard to stifle stream down her cheeks and neck, mingling with the steady trickle of blood from the shallow knife wound. She is disgustingly aware that her suffering excites her sadistic assailant, and not merely from the undisguised glee in his soft laughter; she is pulled tight enough against him to feel him poking at her back.

The revolting awareness of his excitation helps to ground her, as the vile pressure of his gripping hand finally eases, and her scream abates. Rage replaces her immobilizing fear. _Never again._ Pansy holds tight to her resolution, taking care that her bolstered mental state doesn’t translate to her limp body. _Let him think me incapacitated with fear – all the better for when I do strike. You’re going down, fucker._

“Listen – here comes the cavalry,” he confidently pronounces, clutching her even tighter. The sound of approaching multiple rapid footsteps ricochets about the Atrium. Pansy’s heart sinks as she considers the ramifications of the group’s arrival.

Before she can think about how best to free herself from her attacker’s loathsome hold, he hits her with a _‘Petrificus Totalus’_. Pansy’s hope that she will live to see the dawn withers as every part of her body (save her eyes and lungs) paralyzes. Even her tears dry up as Harry, Draco, Hermione, and Aurors Faulkner and Gilmont careen into view.

_I’m so pathetically, selfishly dumb… and now, I’ve endangered my friends._ Pansy’s misery deepens as the man who’s snatched her purrs in fiendish triumph.

_Please, don’t sacrifice yourselves for me,_ she tries to convey with her eyes alone. _I’m not worth it…_ _please. I’m so sorry._

* * *

Harry doesn’t react when Draco accidentally collides with his back as they take in the ghastly scenario before them; his attention is entirely centred on the horrendous tableau beside the far Departure Floo – roughly twenty feet away, his Auror brain automatically calculates, while the rest of his mind screams in unadulterated fear and fury. His already-fierce grip on his wand tightens.

_Oh, hell no – he’s got Pansy – he’s holding a knife to her throat, and he’s Petrified her –_

“Harry– breathe. We’ll figure this out.” Hermione’s urgent whisper helps to ground him.

“Get a hold of yourself, Potter,” Malfoy’s far less sympathetic growl oddly has the same effect, as they all skid to a stop. “Who the fuck is this arsehole?”.

Eyes roaming feverishly over the tall form ominously disguised in Death Eater robes and mask, Harry searches desperately for anything that may indicate the perpetrator’s true identity _. That silver mask looks familiar… is it…?_

“That’s Walden MacNair’s old mask – but that’s not Walden MacNair,” Draco grimly pronounces, keeping his voice hushed as the quintet begin to slowly advance. Gilmont and Faulkner take flanking positions, while Harry pushes forward between Hermione and Draco.

“Are you certain, Malfoy?” Harry demands. Everyone halts as the hooded figure repositions the wickedly sharp dagger at Pansy’s bleeding, vulnerable throat.

Harry’s wrath boils higher at the realization that she’s already been injured. Pansy’s eyes are green pools of anguished sorrow. _She looks like a broken doll– I can’t– I **won’t** let him hurt her. _

His terror fades as his professional training takes over, clearing his blazing panic and honing his senses.

“Positive. MacNair was roughly as tall, but never that bulky,” Draco mutters out the side of his mouth. “Whomever this prick is, he’s young and strong – look at how easily he’s holding her upright.”

It’s true: the mystery aggressor is controlling Pansy’s frozen form with ease, one hand resting just below her breast; and the knife digging into her delicate skin is being skillfully held in place.

“Harry, we can’t risk hitting him with any spells– that knife is too close to her jugular,” Hermione breathes.

“Ms Granger’s correct, sir: the risk is too great,” Gilmont offers; Faulkner tips his square chin in agreement, his eyes fixedly trained ahead.

Effective responses to a hostage situation race through Harry’s brain, though he doesn’t get the opportunity to decide which one to employ as the assailant begins speaking.

“Come any closer, and I’ll slice her neck like a plump little piggy’s,” the man announces, his voice muffled by the mask… and some sort of distortion spell, Harry judges.

“Wands down, unless you want this Little Flower to be dead-headed,” the mystery criminal demands.

Harry jerks his head for the others to comply, pointing his own wand to the floor with great reluctance. _I refuse to release it – I’d rather take my chances with one of us hitting the scumbag before he can cut Pansy._

“Now for the negotiation! I’ll keep it simple: send over the darling Miss Granger, and I’ll let you keep pretty little Pansy, with her neck still intact,” the taunting voice proclaims.

Draco’s roar of savage anger has Harry pivoting; he is relieved to see the blond wizard’s wand is still lowered, though he is wrapped around Hermione like a Venomous Tentacular vine. Hermione appears composedly determined, which immediately fills Harry with dread.

“Let’s make a different deal: I’ll come over instead, no weapons, no traces – and you can let Pansy go,” Harry coolly replies, slipping his wand into his pocket and holding up his hands in surrender. “Think of the coup of keeping me hostage to do with me what you will: surely you’ve envisioned this moment many times?” he baits.

A raucous snigger emits from their enemy. “Sorry, Potter – I don’t swing that way, and no amount of special spellwork is going to result in _you_ getting pregnant. You must be dumber than I gave you credit for,” he sneers. There is a trace of not-quite-controlled derangement underlining the cloaked voice that chills Harry’s blood.

“We have limitless Galleons at our disposal– and it’s easily accessed, all you need to do is accompany me to Gringotts– ” Harry tries again.

“Eh– you can’t buy a Golden Girl, can you? Quit wasting my time, you arrogant shit. I’ll take Hermione, or I’ll drag a dead bitch into the Floo with me. Your call.”

Gilmont paces forward. “How about me? I’m fertile – and a virgin. Bet that’s something you _are_ interested in exploring, right?”. Faulkner grabs her about the middle before she can walk any closer, his deep blue eyes flashing fire as he angrily shakes his head.

The masked man cocks his head. “Tempting… but no dice, babe. You don’t look like much of a crier – and I like ‘em sobbing beneath me when I come.”

The three wizards share a look of mutual furor at the inciting boast; Gus curls her lip in a repulsed hiss.

“Don’t react – he wants to get beneath our skin,” Harry cautions. “I’ll keep him talking, buy us some time– if we’re gone long enough, Wessex and Dunkeld are bound to show, and if they can get behind him– ”

“Let me go, Draco. I have to make the trade – it’s the only way Pansy survives.” Hermione’s calm voice cuts through Harry’s strategizing.

“Absolutely not. **ABSOLUTELY NOT**!” Draco bites off the words with frigid temper. “We’ll keep stalling, like Potter said. There must be something else we can offer– ”

“He came for me, and he won’t stop until he has me,” Hermione implacably states. “I’ve been training for this: he won’t get the better of me, I promise you.” She flicks her chocolate eyes to Harry, giving him a tiny smile of assurance. “I won’t let him hurt me.”

“No. **NO**. I know you want to save Pansy, but this IS NOT the way to do it, Hermione. You can’t– you cannot take the risk,” Draco switches his grip to her shoulders, shaking gently as he peers deeply into her eyes.

“I won’t allow it, do you understand?! I won’t lose you – Hermione, darling, my precious girl, my heart– I can’t risk losing you, I can’t– ” his rough whisper breaks as he crushes her to his chest, his grey eyes agonized.

Hermione hugs him tightly; Harry swallows and looks away, still furiously cogitating as to how he can salvage this impossible situation. Draco is murmuring brokenly in French, his hands compulsively roaming over Hermione as his tall body trembles.

“You have one minute – I’m tired of your ruddy dithering!” the Neo-Death Eater aggrievedly hollers. “Do you want me to cut this cow? I’ll do it, make no mistake!”. He drives the knife into the small hole already carved into Pansy’s supple neck; fresh blood dribbles out, following the same path down her neck and into her cleavage.

“Stop! I’m coming over. Just let me put down my wand, OK?” Hermione unceremoniously drops it to the parquet floor, before gently gathering Draco’s pale hands in her own. “Draco, do you trust me?” she stares intently at him.

“Of course I trust you, Hermione! But you don’t know what he’s capable of, _ma petite_! He’s already drugged you once, and will do so again– please, please don’t do this, I beg you– ”

The raw emotion in Malfoy’s hoarse tone makes Harry’s gut clench in sympathy. _Damn… he loves her so hard… and Hermione’s right there with him…_

“Look at me, Draco. Listen to me, _mon cœur_.” Harry holds his breath, surprised when no words come from Hermione’s mouth; instead, the couple simply gaze intensely at each other as the seconds elapse.

Releasing hands, they engage in a quick, passionate kiss, Draco cupping Hermione’s cheeks as her arms wind around his neck.

Breaking away, Hermione only has eyes for her lover as she vows, “I’ll come back to you, Draco Lucius Malfoy – whole and hearty. I promise. I love you with everything I am.”

“I love you with everything I am, Hermione Jean Granger. You always keep your promises – I’m holding you to that. _Je t’aime, ma chérie_.”

“ _Je t’aime, mon chéri_.” Somehow, Hermione is smiling despite her brimming eyes; she is amazingly self-possessed, despite the grave danger she is willingly walking into.

Harry can only watch in horror as his best friend of over twelve years straightens her shoulders and steps confidently towards what could very well be her doom.

“About fucking time,” the villain grumbles. “Get into the Floo and shut your pretty mouth, unless you want me to shut it for you.”

Hermione nods. Before she obeys the harsh order, she turns her head and drops the minutest of winks over her shoulder.

Bracing himself to rush forward and grab Pansy, Harry bellows as the masked man seizes Hermione by the neck… and drags Pansy into the Floo with them. The trio vanish in a puff of green smoke and a quiet rumble.

_Gone – they’re **gone** – and we’ve no idea where, or with whom_… Harry tears viciously at his shaggy hair, maddened by his impotence in preventing this disaster. He turns to Draco, desperate to know if what he suspects is true.

“Malfoy– tell me you and Hermione can communicate telepathically – tell me you know where they are, come on!” he wildly exhorts. “Fucking hurry, man– Godric knows what that sick fuck has planned!”

Draco briefly looks as though he’s going to puke; were he not nearly insane with the need for rapid answers, Harry might admire the way the Slytherin visibly manages to pull himself together in their shared moment of direful crisis.

“She doesn’t yet know where they are – but she’ll tell me, as soon as she can,” Draco reveals, stooping to pick up Hermione’s discarded vine wood wand and slip it reverently inside his robes. “Hermione will keep them both alive until we can pinpoint their location– she’s smart, and she said– she said she’ll come back to me,” he gulps.

Harry bites back his incensed retort as Draco covers his ashen face with both hands; the wizard is clearly at breaking point. He rounds on Gilmont and Faulkner.

“Quick – what’s the last intelligence we have on MacNair? Any known hidey-holes or property that would suit as a bolthole or– or a prison cell?” his own voice falters as monstrous images of both women being shackled, strung up, and ruthlessly abused seep relentlessly into his consciousness.

“MacNair’s family estate in Northern Scotland burnt down in a retaliatory attack after the War, sir – as far as the Ministry’s been able to investigate, he didn’t have any other known property or safe houses; and his Dark associates are dead or imprisoned, to the best of our knowledge,” Kolton solemnly replies.

“Well, clearly he did have other filthy friends, since some evil fucker wearing his fucking Death Eater mask just kidnapped our witches!” Harry rants, aware that he is being unfair. “I’m sorry – I realize this isn’t your fault. But bloody hell, Gilmont – what the devil were you thinking, risking yourself in such a fashion? It’s a ruddy miracle he didn’t snatch you, too!”.

“Sir, I was just trying to–”

“Alright, alright, I know. How you were Sorted into Ravenclaw, I’ll never understand – talk about the courage of a lion,” Harry sighs. He gives his hair a last vicious yank before his fists drop to his side and he addresses the shellshocked group.

“We need to move: you two, head straight back to the Gala. Get all the other Aurors together and stand guard at every exit – no one leaves, not until we figure out who’s behind all this. If anyone needs the toilet, escort them separately. Tell them we’re running a security drill – hell, I don’t give a rat’s arse what excuse you use, just ensure you keep them corralled, OK? I’m about to send a Patronus to Pritchard-Hawes to apprise him of the sitrep, and ask for all hands on deck.’

“Oh– and once you’ve stabilized the new security parameters, round up Zabini and Nott: escort them, Viktor, Ginny and Luna back here as soon as you can, got it? Malfoy and I will stay by the Floos – the moment we have a location, we leave,” Harry adds, as the partners nod and prepare to depart.

“What about Ronald Weasley, sir?” asks Gilmont; her face is impassive, though her eyes hold clear contempt.

“He stays in the ballroom – for his own protection,” Harry growls. “I’ll deal with him later.”

The Aurors run from the Atrium, Gus in the lead. Ignoring their slapping footsteps, Harry concentrates fiercely, until his regal Stag Patronus materializes before him. He speaks the necessary words for his message, keeping his sentences clear and concise. The silvery corporeal buck gallops gracefully from the room, leaving a fine misty trail in its wake.

“Rather a neat party trick, Potter,” Draco observes. Harry shoots him an assessing glance: though Malfoy’s voice is a shade raspy and uneven, the terror and dread previously displayed across his pallid features has mostly dispelled.

“It has its uses,” Harry allows. “Are you right to tell me now how it’s possible for you and Hermione to communicate without words… and at considerable distance, I assume?”.

“We’re soul-bonded, Potter: our magical cores have mated, and I think– I hope– our connection will protect her. It has to protect her– _it has to_ ,” Draco mutters staunchly, his eyes blind with a heart-rending amalgam of hope and despair.

“We’ll get them back, Malfoy, you heard Hermione– she’s the smartest person I’ve ever known, and she’s a fighter– she’ll be OK, mate,” Harry says the words as much for his benefit as for the stricken man beside him.

“Potter, I can’t– if anything happens to her– if he– h-hurts her– or Pansy– ” Draco’s torment is horribly apparent in his disintegrating vocalization.

“You can’t think like that– you told her you trust her, mate. Tap into some of that legendary elitist Malfoy cool and stay focused on Hermione, you hear me? And when you’re ready, you can explain exactly what ‘soul-bonded’ truly means,” Harry prompts.

Grasping Draco’s elbow, Harry steers him to the side of the fireplaces as he prepares to listen… and learn.

_We’re going to get back our wonderful witches – whole, and unharmed._

_Whatever it takes._

* * *

Hermione fights off the disorientation of the forced Side-Apparation as soon as her feet hit solid ground again; the nauseating effects of the dizzying mode of transport are worse than usual, as their captor took them on a highly convoluted route of swift jumps before they wound up here…. _Wherever ‘here’ is._

Carefully opening her eyes, Hermione is instantly blasted with an _‘Incarcerous’_ spell; magical ropes twist and bind her limbs tightly, pinning her in place against a rough stone wall. Refusing to allow her incipient fear to gain traction, she concentrates on taking a rapid, comprehensive survey of her surrounds, peripherally noting her abductor roughly throwing Pansy’s Petrified form face-up onto a large brass bed to her right.

The space screams ‘evil dungeon’: windowless, swathed in black cloth, with a variety of modern and medieval torture devices proudly displayed on the far wall. Hermione catalogues a metal breast-ripper, a wooden knee-splitter, a cat o’ nine tails, actual thumbscrews, bamboo wedges, and a few scold’s bridles.

_Talk about overkill: most Dark wizards are content with a lengthy session of repeated ‘Crucios’ to get their jollies._ Hermione dryly wonders if the sadistic décor came as part of a discounted kinky furnishings package, such is the stereotypical villainous effect of the dreary space.

She is rudely jostled from her musings as the masked man prises apart her lips, jamming an uncorked vial between them. The dagger that he used to subdue Pansy is now aimed directly at her right eye.

“Drink up, sweet thing – the whole dose, or I’ll carve out your eye and force you to swallow that, too,” the creep coos. “I’m excited to find out how you react to this clever little number – it should knock out your magic for over a day at a time, so I’m told.”

The tip of the knife moves closer; there is a tenth of an inch between it, and permanent blindness. Hermione glugs down the repugnant concoction, struggling not to bring it straight back up. The rank smell alone is enough to induce vomiting.

“That’s my good girl,” the kidnapper crows. “I haven’t told you the best part: this new potion keeps you sentient, but delightfully docile. Isn’t that ingenious? The perfect little fuck toy… I mean, I could simply Petrify you, like my back-up bunny over there– ” he nods at Pansy– “but you’re a tricky little number, and who knows what wandless feats you’re capable of? No, better to be safe than sorry, babe.”

Hermione glares as the odious philter begins to have a detrimental effect on her system, muzzling her magic and lending a heavy lassitude to her bound limbs. _I have to fight this – and I have to keep this arsehole talking, until I know who he is. I can do this._

“W-Won’t you tell me who you are? You don’t intend to wear that mask when you– when you… t-take me… do you…?” Hermione injects a helplessly terrified quality to her tone, summoning tears to her eyes to add to the ‘damsel in distress’ façade.

“Patience, babe – and once I’m sure the _Servus Puella_ has worked, I’ll undo the Incarcerous and away we go.” Hermione can hear the elated grin in his voice, though the mask still hides his face. “Marcus named it that – _‘Servus Puella’_ – it’s Latin for ‘slave girl’; don’t have to tell you that, I reckon.”

“You always did think you were a– what’s that Muggle phrase? – a smart cookie, huh? Gave us a merry old chase… but here you are, trussed up and drugged to the gills, ready to be banged and bred,” he rubs together his hands as he laughs exultantly.

_Wait – I know that laugh… it’s just as cocky and obnoxious as I remember_. _Come on, come on, take off that awful mask: I have to be certain._ Hermione remains mute as the thug begins to peel off his gloves, tossing them carelessly on the floor. He makes a production of untying his black hooded cape, leaving it in place as he leans closer, the nastily sharp blade remaining in his right hand.

“You know, ‘Mione – you don’t mind if I call you ‘Mione, do you? Nah, of course you don’t – I really had a thing for you, back at Hoggies,” he toys with the end of her thick, tawny braid, brushing it against his lips as she represses her instinctive recoil.

“But you– you led me on, only to drop me like a hot potato– like the little bitch cocktease you still are, yeah? I have to say, I’m terribly disappointed in you, slut… I can’t believe you’re fucking Draco Malfoy, of all people.”

He tsks disapprovingly. “Draco Malfoy! He’s not even a proper bad boy, if that’s the attraction – he’s nothing but a fake Death Eater who failed at every task the Dark Lord entrusted to him. Fucking pathetic – _and_ a drunk.”

Hermione chews the inside of her mouth, rounding her eyes and upping the tear factor, striving to tamp down her rage to a manageable level. _You’ll pay for every debasing insult, every sexist slur, every despicable threat – and every stolen touch._ She chances a look at Pansy, gladdened immeasurably by the simmering choler that has replaced the terror in her brunette friend’s wide eyes.

The telepathic conversation she’d shared with Draco a few short minutes ago flows through her mind, buttressing her courage. Hermione briefly closes her eyes, recalling every impassioned word.

**_Draco. I have to do this – I have to fight for Pansy… and for myself. Trust me, darling – trust me to save myself, this time. Even if he drugs me again – I’m going to call on our soul bond, and you’re going to help me, do you understand? We’re going to do this together, Draco. And we’re going to win._ **

**_Hermione… are you certain you can do this? Absolutely, unquestionably sure? We’ve not really explored the full potential of our bond – nor tapped it, not purposefully, and not for something this bloody risky –_ **

**_I’m one hundred percent positive I can do this, Draco. I’m the Brightest Witch of My Age, remember?_ **

**_You’re the Brightest Witch in the World, Hermione. If you say you can do this – I believe you. You tell me who he is, and where you are, as soon as you know, yes? And when the time comes – you’ll know the moment – you remember what we are to each other, and you take everything I give you. All of it._ **

**_I will, Draco. I swear to you – we’ll beat him. Together._ **

**_One last thing, Hermione – I enspelled your golden headband. If any man other than me attempts to touch or remove it – the laurel leaves will sharpen and cut him to ribbons. Use it,_ ma petite _. Do not hesitate._**

A cruelly hard slap to her left cheek snaps back her head; Hermione doesn’t need to fake her tears, as her face immediately begins to throb and swell.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, bitch! Don’t pretend you’re passing out, we paid a small fucking fortune to perfect this potion,” her tormentor peevishly purports. “Shame Marcus couldn’t be here – but he’ll join us, eventually. No interfering bastard elves to save you tonight, Golden Girl, I’ve made sure of that,” he boasts.

“We’re just about to get to the fun part of the evening; I’ve decided to breed you first – hell, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll fuck you on the bed for Round One. Right next to Pansy: she’s an infamous slag, she’ll probably get off on watching us,” he gloats.

“But first – I’ll get rid of those pesky ropes, shall I?” He points his wand and chants, _“Emancipare”_ ; the magical cords unwind and slowly vanish, leaving Hermione swaying as the drug forced down her throat attacks her balance.

Her kidnapper solves the problem of her dodgy equilibrium by tossing her on the bed, next to Pansy; Hermione surreptitiously pats her friend’s frozen hand, hoping to transmit some small assurance that all hope is not lost.

“Look at you two… my perfect little pets, mine to do with as I please,” he brags. “Marcus is going to be _livid_ he missed this– serves the stupid arse right for deviating from the original plan… I told him not to try for you in the Ministry! Too many variables: we’ll keep watching and bide our time, that’s what I said all along. Ah well, he doesn’t mind my sloppy seconds overmuch, as it happens. Sharing is caring, and all that.”

“P-Please – please don’t hurt us… we’ll do… do wha… wha’ever you say…” Hermione slurs her mewling entreaty, carefully testing the drugged dampening of her magic as their captor throws back his head in a malicious cackle.

“Well, of course you will – that’s the entire sodding point, you know-it-all twat!” his hand snakes out to grip her chin, forceful enough to leave a bruise. “Look how the mighty have fallen… ‘Mione and the Little Flower… I’ll definitely enjoy cutting off your gowns, pretty as they are,” he decides, releasing her chin to finger the handle of his dagger.

“But first – time for a proper introduction, yeah? _Re_ -introduction, I should say.”

He dramatically folds back the hood of his cape (the incongruous memory of attending a hilariously dreadful community theatre performance of ‘The Phantom of the Opera’ jumps into Hermione’s brain – though the primary actor in that show had deliberately played it for laughs, unlike this bombastic prick, she caustically reflects). From her downward angle, she catches a scant glimpse of short, golden blonde curls.

Hermione’s potion-affected, sluggish heart beats faster as the man _finally_ strips away the hateful silver Death Eater mask. He grins down at her with a familiar, overweeningly smug expression on his traditionally handsome face.

_I knew it! I bloody well knew it. You dirty, depraved, traitorous bastard._

Moistening her dry lips, Hermione fashions her greeting to be as shakily submissive and timorous as she can.

_Let him think me cowed, and weak. He’s in for a hell of a rude shock in the not-too-distant future._

“Hello… Cormac.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? 
> 
> For those of you who are interested, I dithered hopelessly about the identity of the other villain (sorry, Marcus - you were always a contender). 
> 
> Then I had a dream that laid it all out for me; hence, Cormac.
> 
> I'll explain more in the next few chapters... and sorry for the cliffhanger.  
> 💗😊💗


	61. Requital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my marvellous beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5, for all her patient readings and re-readings and brilliant suggestions for this chapter; your help is generous, invaluable, and greatly appreciated. And your feral bloodthirstiness never fails to make me laugh. Thank you, dearest Muse 😍😘.
> 
> I would like to acknowledge that the inspiration for the enspelled golden laurel-leafed headband Draco gave to Hermione came from @ThebeMoon's wonderful fic, 'The Gloriana Set'; it's my favourite Dramione 8th Year story.  
> Here's the link, if you are interested:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821571/chapters/39485710
> 
> I have my fingers and toes crossed that you guys like this chapter! No cliffhangers in this update - I promise. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, or following NAEV on FB or Tumblr.  
> I am so grateful, and humbled by your support.  
> 💖💖😊💖💖 VJ

****Trigger warning: violence, blood, misogyny, sexist language, and angst****

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

“Potter, I can’t give you the exact specifics of our soul-bonded magic – because I’m only going off what Lucius told me, alright? Plus what we’ve already experienced, the past few weeks,” Draco accesses his fast-dwindling supply of patience and control as he strides agitatedly around the Departure Floos. “It’s a rare form of old magic that is poorly documented and researched.”

 _Remember he’s trying to come at this from every angle – he’s just as desperate as I am to retrieve Hermione and Pansy, safe and sound. Don’t snap at him… well, unless he sodding asks me again how our magical cores first mated. I am **not** detailing our metaphysical sexual experiences unless I absolutely have to,_ Draco vows.

“But you _are_ saying that you can share magic – that you can ‘gift’ each other your powers, right?” Harry presses, ignoring Draco’s frustrated groan. “As well as communicating telepathically?”.

“In theory, yes – as I have already told you three fucking times, Potter! Sorry, sorry – I'm bloody terrified... Alright.”

Draco swallows and tries for a modicum of calm. “Lucius said that with practice, we will be able to utilize each other’s sorcery, and differing abilities... until they come naturally, to both of us; and that the merging of our magical cores becomes more than the sum of its parts... that her strengths will ameliorate my weaknesses, and vice versa.”

“Can you track her? If you focus hard enough, can you trace her location? We need an address, Malfoy.”

“Look, I tried that when Flint knocked her out – it didn’t work then, I just knew she was in terrible danger– "

“But your bond has developed more since, right?”

“I think so – I don’t know for sure – what if I’m wrong?! What if it doesn’t work, what do we do then? I can’t believe I just let her walk away – straight into the arms of a monster– oh fuck, what have I done??” Draco doesn’t realize he is copying Potter’s signature move of pulling frustratedly at his hair until Harry slaps at his hands.

“Cut it out – it’s not helpful, and I don’t have the time or energy to spare to talk you down from a full-blown meltdown, you twit. Settle down and concentrate. Can you feel Hermione’s… energy signature, for want of a better term?” Harry prompts, his usually genial face drawn and grave.

“Yeah, yeah– OK. Just give me a minute, I’ll home in on that.” Draco closes his eyes and exhales deeply, gripping the mantlepiece of the nearest Floo to ground himself. He sends out his magic, envisioning his powers as a light-infused hawk, searching for his mate.

**_Hermione... sweetheart, please answer me... please,_ ma petite _... Tell me where you are, we’re coming... please, darling..._**

His telepathic plea zooms and wheels about, growing increasingly desperate as the seconds tick by without response. Draco feels his gorge rising as his terror returns threefold. _No– no– no– I can’t- I won’t abandon hope– Hermione’s strong, and so smart–_

**_Draco, I'm OK– we’re OK– well, we will be. It’s Cormac – Cormac McLaggen, he’s got us in a basement or dungeon somewhere, Pansy’s still Petrified, and he drugged me with another potion– but I’m fighting it, Draco. Will you help me, please? I need to use your magic, he’s inhibited mine, the sleazy shit!_ **

The sound of his beloved’s voice in his head makes Draco’s knees fold; he is dimly aware of Potter propping him against the wall and saying something urgent-sounding. Draco ignores him as he frantically replies to Hermione.

**_McLaggen?!? Is he alone, are there others? Yes, yes, of course– I’m ready to tap into our soul-bond magic whenever you are– keep him talking, if you can, OK?_ **

**_No, just McLaggen, and he hasn’t mentioned anyone else bar Flint. I’m on it– Cormac's always been a dreadful braggart, he won’t be able to resist boasting about how clever he’s been_** (Draco can practically see Hermione rolling her eyes in disgust as she confidently predicts McLaggen’s vainglorious behaviour). **_He’s already claimed this modified roofie potion won’t knock me out this time– but it will keep me ‘docile’, apparently. I’m going to exterminate him, Draco. Wretched cockroach!_**

**_Alright – good. You’ve got this, Granger. Lucius said that in order to consciously manifest our unified magical cores, we must ‘open ourselves wholly’ to each other: he advised recalling and focusing on the joyousness of our joining, all of it – mental, spiritual, physical. Does that make sense? Hermione?_ **

**_Yes, of course. Wait – I’m going to distract this fool – just give me a moment, Draco..._ **

“Malfoy? DRACO! What’s happening?” Harry’s voice breaks through properly as Hermione briefly suspends their extrasensory communication.

“It’s Cormac McLaggen – the sick fuck has them in a basement somewhere, he’s drugged Hermione, we’re going to try a soul-bonded magical transfer – she's stalling him, hoping to get a clue to their location– "

“Cormac?!? Gods, I always knew he was a sleaze– but this– fuck! Is Hermione alright? And Pansy– how is she– has he– " a wild-eyed Harry breaks off, covering his quivering lips with his hand.

“Hermione said Pansy’s still Petrified, but she’s OK. They're OK,” Draco repeats, willing the statement to continue to hold true. Harry appears ready to cast up his accounts onto Draco’s shoes, such is his stark distress.

“Buck up– and don’t interrupt me again, we’re about to try to deliberately merge our cores,” Draco apprises Harry. “Unless I ask you to intervene, do not distract me, do you understand? This is crucial, Potter.”

“Got it,” Harry nods vigorously, hope creeping into his tense expression. “I’ll send another Patronus advising it’s McLaggen, and ensure you’re not disturbed. Do your best, Malfoy.”

Biting back his automatic retort that he always does his best, Draco merely tips his chin in acknowledgement. He sits down, cross-legged against the brick wall, closing his eyes and channelling all his energies into a meditative state of readiness.

_This is going to work. Our soul bond is infinitely stronger and more powerful than anyone realizes. My Hermione is coming back to me: victorious, and unharmed. I have faith in her… I have faith in us._

Shutting his eyes and jettisoning all distractions from his mind, Draco repeats the last sentence as a mantra.

_I have faith in us. Always._

* * *

Cormac McLaggen nonchalantly dangles the grotesque silver Death Eater mask from the fingertips of his right hand as he smirks down at Hermione. He’s still wearing the traditional tuxedo he’d donned for the Gala; it emphasizes his classic good looks. 

The cruel, corrupt expression on his face warps whatever superficial charm his appearance initially represents, as he leers at the two captive witches on the large brass bed. _Rotten to his very bones_ , Hermione decides, disguising her instinctive sneer as a sob.

“Ah, babe – I've waited a very, very long time for this,” he hums, lecherously inching the digits of his other hand up Hermione’s left leg, stopping at her knee. Somehow, she controls her disgusted flinch, aware that she needs to psychically contact Draco and connect with his magical core; her own is still blunted by the revolting roofie potion Cormac recently forced down her throat.

“I’m torn, pet: should I take my time with you... savour every hot moment, explore every inch of that sexy little body – or should I just brutally fuck you the first time to take the edge off? Decisions, decisions,” he taunts, chuckling evilly.

“The good news is – well, for me, anyway – no one will disturb us... we’ve worked long and hard to ensure our playroom is secure.”

“Is that– is that what you m-meant, when you said my elf c-can’t interfere?” Hermione increases her scared sniffles as Cormac nods emphatically.

“Yep – Marcus spent an age on the wards… as well as barring uninvited wizards, he reckons if any non-humans attempt to Apparate straight in, he’s honed the spellwork to cut them in half,” Cormac snickers. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing that for myself… nah, maybe later. After you and I enjoy some quality time together, sweet cheeks.”

 _Each of his sexist ‘endearments’ is somehow more offensive than the last,_ Hermione acidly observes, as Cormac lasciviously joggles his blond brows. _Ugh… such a shame he didn’t die of Doxy egg poisoning. No matter – he’s going to bitterly regret the day he and his sicko mate decided to target me – and my friend._

“Cormac – y-you weren’t truly upset by what happened at the Slug Club all those years ago, were you? I was just young, and silly… scared of your powerful… m-manliness, that’s all,” Hermione simpers, aiming to keep the bastard talking. “If I’d known you were so… dominating… so… clever… “ she trails off, feigning confusion and regret, feebly twitching her hands against the black satin counterpane.

“You always did underestimate me, didn’t you?? Everyone did – stupid arseholes, always running blindly after Potter – Saint Fucking Potter, Hero of the Wizarding World – and for what? For having a daft scar on his head and his bitch mother sacrificing herself? Big fucking deal,” Cormac warms to his bitter rant, strutting over to a shelf and carefully placing the silver mask in the centre.

Hermione manages not to visibly startle as Draco’s tense voice suddenly resounds in her head.

Her beloved wizard is holding onto his vaunted composure by the barest of margins, judging by the underlying strain in his psychic tones. Hermione’s heart alternately leaps and aches as she hastens to assure Draco of her welfare. Fortunately, Cormac continues to bleat on about his hatred for all things Potter and Golden Trio; she tracks him with her eyes while harnessing her telepathy.

Her fury is swelling with Cormac’s every whingeing word and aggrandized gesture. _Think you can drug me – chase me – abduct and hurt Pansy – threaten us with rape and forced breeding – you are_ seriously _going to regret ever messing with me and mine, you moronic, sleazy scumbag._

She is jolted out of her savage pledge when Draco urgently replies. The relief and love in his voice gladdens her heart immeasurably.

“ – and that dipshit Weasley, taking my rightful position as Keeper – I _know_ someone meddled with my tryout, as if that ginger nutsack could best _me_ – ” Cormac is still raving, unaware of the Confundus Charm Hermione sent his way at a critical moment that day.

“No one bothered to present me with an Order of Merlin, did they?! Oh no, never mind the fact I fought just as fiercely in the Battle of Hogwarts – and what do I have to show for it? Fuck all, that’s what. Marcus was right, what’s the point in playing the hero when you don’t get the girls, or the fame and fortune? You gotta make your own luck, babe – and I did, believe you me…” McLaggen fulminates.

_That’s it, keep rambling, you mouthy dickhead._

Hermione quickly responds to Draco, while Cormac swaggers back to the bed and begins undressing. He’s still yammering, clearly enamoured with the sound of his own voice.

 _He’s such a jabbering cretin._ Hermione applies herself to figuring out exactly where they are.

“Will we… will we live here with you, Cormac? You… you’ll look after us, won’t you? Please? I promise… to do whatever you want,” Hermione whimpers, squeezing some more tears from her reddened eyes.

“Well… we’ll see, won’t we? Perhaps if you’re good girls – if you do exactly as I say – and obey Marcus, when he’s released, of course – you’ll be allowed upstairs every now and then, huh? I suppose we’ll have to rethink the living arrangement once my sons are born, I won’t have them living in a cellar,” Cormac disdainfully asserts.

“Oh… we’re in your house…? I should have known… it’s so tastefully decorated,” Hermione murmurs; she keeps the facetious nuance to herself. She chews the inside of her cheeks as she registers Pansy’s exaggerated eye roll. _Excellent: she’ll fight with me, when the time comes._

“It’s my home now, I suppose you could say,” McLaggen puffs up with overt pride, his baby blue eyes gleaming. “But we’ve got plenty of time to play house, babe – I need to get my end away before my balls explode. Let me take off the rest of this monkey suit and we’ll get down to business,” he licks his lips in a truly revolting fashion, before yanking the white tuxedo shirt over his curly head.

Closing her eyes, Hermione tugs at the transcendental thread linking her to Draco.

**_It’s time, Draco – I’m ready. I love you so much,_ mon chéri _. We’re going to win._**

**_I know you are. You’re an absolute superstar, Hermione. You couldn’t love me more than I love you, though– it’s simply impossible. I’m ready. Keep your breathing as steady as you can, and open yourself to me,_ ma chérie _. I’m all yours._**

**_Let’s do this._ **

* * *

Harry has just sent off his second Patronus stag to Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes when Gilmont and Faulkner reappear, leading Blaise, Theo, and the rest of their party (except Ron) into the Atrium. He hurries to intercept them before they intrude upon Draco’s critical reverie.

“Malfoy’s connecting his magical core to Hermione’s– long story– they’re soul-bonded– she’s going to remotely channel his magic because Cormac drugged her again,” Harry imparts in a low voice.

“McLaggen?!” asks Theo, bewilderment turning to cold fury.

“That wanker?!” Ginny growls, her slender hands tightening on her black yew wood wand.

“Fucking sleazeball!” Blaise loudly rumbles, repeating the phrase under his breath as Harry frowns at him.

“Who is this filthy _plŭkh_ … rat, now?” Viktor demands. “I know him not.”

“Cormac’s smile has always been unkind,” Luna remarks softly. “Soul-bonded… that’s really lovely, though I wish we’d discovered this under different circumstances.” Her sweet face is pinched with sorrow and concern.

“Listen, I need to know – do any of you have any idea of where Cormac might have taken them? A holiday spot… anything he might have mentioned, that has some meaning to him?” Harry imperatively addresses the group.

A slight pause, before everyone seems to excitedly chatter at once. _Bloody hell, they sound like monkeys at the zoo._

“Guys – please!” Harry throws an anxious glance in Malfoy’s direction, relieved that the discordant hubbub doesn’t appear to have registered with the meditating wizard. “One at a time, alright?” he requests, in a quieter tone.

“I always thought he was a grandstanding dickhead, never paid him much attention,” Blaise admits, frustration tightening his wide shoulders.

“I avoided him like the plague – he was forever backing unsuspecting witches into corners at school – I thought he was just a pest, I wish I’d realized he was a _rapist_ ,” Ginny spits.

“Wasn’t he the fool who ate four dozen Doxy eggs for a bet?” Theo wonders. “Sorry, Harry – I rarely ever spoke to him.”

Viktor worriedly demands, “But ve must learn of the place he takes Herm-own-ninny and Miss Pansy!”.

“Auror Potter, we’ve secured the ballroom; so far, no one is kicking up much of a stink about not being able to leave. Faulkner suggested the Ministry spring for extra barrels of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey, and the band has agreed to keep playing, so most folks are still merrily drinking, or boogieing on the dancefloor,” Gilmont states.

The rest of the gang falls into a fraught silence, swapping concerned glances.

“It’s a tad obvious: but have you checked his uncle Tiberius’s secret hunting lodge?” Luna pipes up, shrugging gracefully as seven pairs of eyes turn to her in amazement. “You know, the one in Suffolk? He used to invite Cormac there to stalk red deer – well, to _shoot_ them, ‘stalking’ is a ridiculous euphemism, really– ”

“Luna– do you happen to know exactly where in Suffolk this lodge is situated?” Harry fervently queries. “And how do you know of it? Forgive my abruptness, please – every second counts in this crisis.”

Luna shrugs; the movement lightly rattles her dangling silver belled earrings as she answers, “Cormac once told me at a Halloween party that it was just outside the village of Ampton in West Suffolk, about five miles north of Bury St Edmunds. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, Harry.’

“Oh, people often confide in me at gatherings, usually for want of their preferred company paying them any attention. I don’t ask for confessions, but I hear them, nevertheless. Father says that if you don’t take up much conversational space, people rush in to fill it,” Luna reveals.

 _You bloody legend, Luna Lovegood!_ Harry busses her on both cheeks, barely able to stop himself from dancing for joy as she squeaks in surprise.

“Luna – you’re a national treasure – don’t you dare let anyone ever tell you otherwise, you hear me?”. Harry releases her after a quick, affectionate hug.

“Gilmont – I need you to immediately head to the Records Room to unearth everything you can about Tiberius McLaggen’s last will and testament: even if Cormac claimed the hunting lodge’s exact whereabouts was a secret, Tiberius would have had to have listed it somewhere in the document, or risk losing the entail on a technicality,” Harry orders. “Faulkner, I want you with me, in case we have to strike at a moment’s notice.”

Gus clamps shut her mouth, clearly displeased by the specialized directive. “But sir– if we do mount a raid, I want to be equally involved– ”

“You’re better at rapidly processing vital information – I’m not playing favourites. The clock’s ticking, Gus,” Harry curtly reminds. “Second one of the other Aurors from the ballroom as back-up, on your way through.”

“I’ll go with her,” Blaise announces, already moving to Gilmont’s side. “Time is of the essence, yeah? I’ve had basic defensive training, never fear,” he says, in reply to Harry’s sceptical expression.

“Alright – just go, go! Once Malfoy’s finished, we’ll Apparate to Ampton village and proceed from there,” Harry barks. He is thankful that Gus doesn’t waste any more time protesting; she settles for bestowing him a fulminating look and tearing off to the elevator bank, not bothering to check whether Zabini is keeping pace.

 _I’m not certain what’s going on there – but Gilmont can more than take care of herself._ Harry dismisses the issue for the time being.

Pivoting, he checks on Draco. _Still looks like he’s deeply involved in their peculiar magic transfer,_ Harry assesses. _Merlin’s beard… I hope he knows what he’s about – the fate of our witches could very well rest upon it. Hermione and Pansy, I mean,_ he corrects himself, refusing to dwell on his reflexive use of the pronoun ‘our’. _I’ll be lucky if Pansy ever speaks to me again, considering how badly I reacted to Ron’s inflammatory disclosure. I admit I was shocked… but I never meant to imply I judged Pansy – I was angry that Ron was so purposefully insensitive and nasty._

His stomach flips as his mind ruthlessly runs through the gamut of worst-case scenarios again.

 _Please, let them be OK… please…_ Harry silently begs the universe.

_Please give me the chance to apologize… and to hold Pansy in my arms again…_

_They **have** to be OK._

* * *

_We have to fully open up to each other… I must concentrate on the rapture of our merging – ‘mental, spiritual, physical’; and remember all the joy that being with Draco brings me. Got it._

Hermione spares a final glance at Cormac: he has paused his undressing process, standing naked from the waist up, beside the bed… apparently entranced by his own reflection in the supremely tacky overhead ‘bordello’ mirror.

 _Is he…? He’s actually primping his golden curls while he riffs on and on about his perceived grievances of oversight and unappreciation. ‘To Cormac, love Cormac’ – hell’s bells, what a malignant narcissist,_ Hermione scorns.

The fear she felt when she’d first spotted Cormac holding a knife to Pansy’s throat has been replaced with a much stronger set of emotions… Rage. Vengeance. Bloodlust. _You will reap what you sow, Cormac McLaggen. You picked the wrong witches to attempt to victimize, you evil arsehat._

Slowing her breaths, Hermione thinks back to that first night… _I was drugged, helpless, hiding in a tree with mysterious assailants dogging my steps. Dragging my limp, disoriented body to the townhouse… placing my trust in a man who (as a boy and youth) had insulted and denigrated me for years._

_I did… I did trust Draco. Even then… did my soul recognize its counterpoint in another? There’s always been something deep, powerful, and untamed, between us._

_Waking up in his bed the next morning… sick, frightened, and confused. Draco being startlingly kind, putting me at ease… cooking me breakfast the Muggle way. His determination to stay involved with the roofie drama… his stubborn, resolute protectiveness. Constantly giving me his clothes to wear._

_The guided Legilimency… his sexual proposition. Our spectacular, incendiary first kiss. Our first night together… all the other glorious nights, the not-date dates, the kisses, hugs, candid conversations, and cuddles. Learning each other’s bodies… our wildly magnificent sexual compatibility. Draco arranging for Macdolas to be my bodyguard and helpmate._

_Flint’s attack… Draco’s fierce, feral response… the way he essentially moved me in with him without ever actually_ asking _me to live with him! His every touch and word revealing his intense, unswerving devotion and concern._

_Sharing meals and watching TV together, our laughter and squabbles… all of Draco’s beautiful, thoughtful gifts. His rampant jealousy… his endless, unfeigned hunger for me. His acceptance of my imperfections and aggravating behaviours… his willingness to accept me, just as I am. Our silly, scared, obstinate determination to stick to our pretence of not being in a relationship._

_Blaise’s harebrained scheme of pushing Draco to escort Astoria Greengrass to the Gala, to force us into acknowledging our true feelings… our subsequent confessions, and our mutual commitment to a full, emotionally comprehensive relationship. Wallowing in domestic banality, and seriously discussing our future together… declaring our love._ Making _love… and spontaneously merging our magical cores._

A real, joyful tear slides down Hermione’s stinging cheek as her profound feelings for Draco inundate her consciousness, activating their soul-bonded magic. Tingles of power radiate from her mind as her quintessence seeks out Draco’s life force and sorcerous powers. The singular sensation of her intangible nucleus racing across supernatural boundaries to find her mate is breathtakingly wondrous.

She whispers into the void. ** _Draco… please join with me, my one true love. My soul mate. Help me._**

He responds in a flash, as pure light beams and zings along their mystic connection.

**_Hermione… all that I have is yours. Take what you need, my love. I believe in you._ **

The stupefying effect of the narcotic potion Cormac dosed her with snaps like a tattered rope. Her muzzled magic recovers, streaming through every cell in her body to fill Hermione with a stunning, all-encompassing power – unlike anything she’s ever before experienced.

 _This is Draco’s magic, woven through and underpinning my own: sustaining and fortifying my preternatural energy and skills. I feel utterly, infinitely amazing… like I could reshape the stars with a flick of my wrist,_ she grins to herself. Any lingering terror caused by Cormac’s cruel treatment has burned to ashes, leaving behind an unwavering confidence in her upcoming retribution.

Taking great care to not alert McLaggen to her resurgent magical potency, Hermione reaches out to Draco, sending him an exultant transmission of reassurance and unfettered hope.

**_Draco, it worked! The blanketing effect of the roofie potion has entirely vanished– and my magic is stronger than I’ve ever known. We did it!_ **

**_Hermione – I’m so incredibly proud of you! Stay connected with me,_ ma petite _: use everything and anything you need to bring down McLaggen. Remember our training – and your strength._**

**_I will. I love you, Draco._ **

**_I love you, Hermione. I’ll see you soon._ **

Hermione draws a full breath, grounding herself back into her physical surroundings just as Cormac steps out of his trousers and underwear. He ostentatiously twirls his black jocks a few times, before pitching them to the floor. Cupping and roughly stroking his genitals, Cormac leers down at her, picking up his horrid dagger again.

“Hold nice and still for me, Golden Girl – this blade is razor sharp, just ask your little friend if you don’t believe me,” he sniggers. “I’ll have you out of that dress in a jiffy… and then the fun really starts. Now, I encourage crying piteously – but if you are dumb enough to try to fight me off, I’ll start cutting, got it?” he swishes the mean little knife in the air to emphasize his threat.

Staying perfectly still, Hermione pathetically sniffles, “Yes, Cormac.”

“Call me ‘Master’; you’re my little bitch now, ‘Mione – better get used to it,” Cormac maliciously grins. He turns to Pansy.

“Same goes for you, Little Flower – your continued existence is totally dependent on how well you can follow orders,” he sneers. “It’s a shame you’re so promiscuous… but you’ll do as a back-up brood mare, I suppose. Watch and learn, sugar.”

Summoning her reinvigorated magic, Hermione releases Pansy’s Petrification with a swift, wandless ‘ _Finite Incantatem_ ’, accompanied by an experimental telepathic message.

**_Pansy – I just lifted the Petrificus Totalus - don’t move yet… let this prick believe we’re still at his mercy for a little longer. My magic is back, and stronger than ever; when I make my move, back me up, please. Blink twice if you understand._ **

**Blink, blink** : Pansy wastes no time responding. Her stormy beryl eyes narrow fleetingly, before she simulates frozen submissiveness.

Cormac leans down, huffing crossly. “This ugly bit of gold tat wrapped around your head has to go– a gift from your alkie lord of the manor, I take it? Doesn’t surprise me he has to pay for sex one way or another… wish I could be there when he realizes I’ve snatched you right beneath his pointy nose,” he crows, flipping the dagger onto the bed, next to Hermione’s right hip.

 _We’ll see who’s gloating in a moment, you dunderheaded turd_. Hermione bides her time, waiting for McLaggen to grab for her laurel-leaf headband.

“I’ve seen better jewellery come out of Christmas crackers, honestly; I guess the Malfoy coffers aren’t as full as they– **FUCK**!” Cormac bellows, as the tip of his right index finger is cleanly sliced off by the enchanted metalwork. Hermione revels in his agonized, uncomprehending scream.

Jack-knifing upward in one fluid motion, Hermione gathers the discarded dagger into her right hand as she headbutts Cormac with practised ferocity, collecting him directly in his forehead. The golden leaves morph into vicious barbs, embedding in his temples; Hermione reaches up to disengage the thin garland from her own head, without incurring a single scratch. She leaves the weaponized leaves stuck in Cormac’s bloodied brow, for the time being.

_Damn – Draco really is an exceedingly talented wizard. I must remember to lavishly praise him for this particular piece of ingenious cursework, later._

Adjusting her grip on the wicked little knife, Hermione drives her left knee straight into Cormac’s shrivelled, unprotected groin with ruthless efficiency. The naked thug crumples like poor quality parchment, clutching his bruised testicles and emitting a high-pitched squeal of unadulterated pain.

Dropping to a crouch, Hermione jabs the tip of the dagger into Cormac’s gulping throat, replicating his abuse of Pansy in the Atrium. Her blood is humming with a combination of near-overloaded magic and her fiery desire for revenge. Cormac momentarily ceases writhing, his cringing gaze reluctantly colliding with her triumphal one.

“You are so fucked, Cormac,” Hermione hisses, peripherally aware of Pansy wobbling off the bed and stepping to McLaggen’s other side. “I’m sorely tempted to sever your worthless throat and leave you to bleed out on the floor, you irredeemable scumbag.”

“Do it!” Pansy snarls. “Give me the damned knife, Pollyanna – I’ll carve him like a fucking pumpkin!” She delivers a brutal kick to his already-compromised bollocks with the pointed tip of her high heel, grunting in barbarous delight as Cormac openly sobs. The blood from the laurel leaf wounds flows steadily down his brow and cheeks in a freakishly grotesque pattern.

 _As for his severed fingertip – well, he’s unlikely to exsanguinate because of it. Let him bleed._ Hermione deliberately Accio’s the amputated piece of flesh beneath the bed.

“P-Please– please don’t– ” Cormac weakly keens. “I wasn’t– I wasn’t really going to– ”

“What?! You weren’t going to repeatedly rape and forcibly impregnate us? Hold us captive in your scaly basement and inflict all manner of sexual depravities upon us? Drug and demean us and make us your _breed slaves_?!?” Pansy’s wild scream hinges on hysteria. “You’re a foul, soulless monster– where’s my wand– I’ll Avada this bastard myself, I swear I will!”.

Without taking her eyes off Cormac’s squirming and crying form, Hermione soothes her friend. “I’m so sorry he hurt you, Pansy, and I know he deserves to suffer… and suffer he will, in the lonely bowels of Azkaban. He’ll pay for his crimes, as will Flint. You’re safe now, I promise.”

Pansy’s reaction is to coldly press the implanted headband deeper into Cormac’s head, using the flat of her shoe. “You’re lucky Hermione has a heart of gold – I’d kill you without a backward glance, fuckface. Look at you, cowering on the floor, pitifully shielding your micro penis… bee’s dick, I should say.”

Hermione pulls back the dagger slightly, lest the pressure Pansy is applying to Cormac’s forehead accidentally impale him on the knife. _If I end him, I want it to be on purpose._

“Pansy, I need to dismantle the maiming wards they’ve laid on the property: if I return your wand to you, will you swear not to use an Unforgivable on him? Scrap that – I‘ll Petrify him myself,” Hermione settles.

“No! I want– I _need_ to help, Hermione. Please,” Pansy passionately entreats. “Please,” she repeats, in a substantially more controlled manner.

“Are you sure?” Hermione murmurs, still a little dubious. Cormac continues to groan and feebly thrash between them.

“Yeah. I’m OK – I’ll be OK,” Pansy amends, lifting her foot from Cormac’s bloodied face. She scrubs at her tear-marked cheeks and tries for a small, stiff smile of assurance. “Go on, pass me my wand and work your fancy magic… I want to get out of this shithole before sunrise,” she grouses. “If IKEA hired the Marquis de Sade as a room designer, this would be the tragic result: ‘Dunggeön Lite’.”

 _At least she’s recovered enough to be cracking jokes._ Hermione chuckles softly as she replies, “Wait – you’ve darkened the doors of a Muggle IKEA? On purpose?”.

“Once, and never again – the one-way maze of the entry/exit layout is a modern-day hellscape,” Pansy decrees with a contemptuous sniff. “Wand me, please.”

Hermione flicks Pansy’s slim holly wood caduceus off the shelf Cormac placed it (next to the sinister Death Eater mask) and flies it into Pansy’s waiting hand; she grips it with grim satisfaction.

“Thanks, Hermione. Do your thing– this shitbag isn’t going anywhere.” At Hermione’s diffident look, Pansy exasperatedly asserts, “I promise not to kill him, OK? Look, I’m just going to bind the bastard.”

Confidently chanting, “ _Incarcerous_ ”, Pansy engenders thick black chains to blast from the end of her wand, trussing McLaggen from his neck to his toes; he wails as Pansy adjusts the bindings to effectively hog-tie him into a sideways arch.

Satisfied that Cormac’s menace has been thoroughly nullified, Hermione stands up, stepping back and moving to the centre of the stone-walled basement. Closing her eyes and regulating her breathing, she is about to start the process of identifying and disassembling the vicious wards that are protecting the space when anguished male screams emanate behind her.

Swivelling, Hermione lifts her eyebrow as she witnesses Pansy mercilessly delivering a series of hard kicks to Cormac’s swollen scrotum, using her stiletto heel as a spear. “That’s for piercing my throat– ” **KICK!** “ – that’s for groping my breast and twisting my nipple–” **KICK!** “ – and that’s for fucking ruining my gorgeous Valdrin Sahiti gown with bloodstains, you imbecilic philistine!” **KICK!**

Pansy defensively plants her hands on her hips as she notes Hermione’s critical expression.

“What? I said I wouldn’t _kill_ him… the chains became entangled with my shoe, if anyone questions why his nuts are lightly punctured,” she smirks.

“Are you done? I really do need to focus here, Pansy,” Hermione gently chides.

“Yeah, yeah – do you need my wand back?”

“I don’t think so… Pansy, my – _our_ – magic feels so strong… it’s crazy how powerful it is,” Hermione confesses. “I need to take care how I use it, that’s all. So please: don’t savage him again unless he tries to escape, alright?”.

Pansy nods. “OK. You have my word.”

Relieved that Cormac will (probably) live to face trial for his myriad crimes, Hermione reapplies herself to breaking the dark spells surrounding the dungeon. She senses Draco at the other end of their soul-bond, steadily maintaining his own concentration as their magic continues to flow together and boost each other’s powers.

She easily locates and dismantles each wicked curse and booby-trapped protection, breaking them apart like brittle twigs as her anger at their intended effects increases by the second. Had she tried to summon Macdolas for help (as she had in the Ministry after Flint’s attack), the brave little elf would have been instantly decapitated. And if Draco and Harry had figured out their location before Hermione set to work – they would likely have been grievously maimed upon arrival, if not killed outright.

Hermione vanquishes the last of the evil defences and eagerly reaches out to her mind-linked mage.

 ** _Draco – we beat Cormac! He’s chained up on the floor, bleeding and sobbing. I’ve just finished eliminating all the nasty spellwork Flint and McLaggen laid down to keep everyone but them from this dungeon; can you come to us now, please?_** Hermione urges.

 ** _Are you safe? What of Pansy? Did he hurt you?_** Draco’s reaction is immediate.

**_We’re OK, Malfoy… he hurt Pansy’s breast earlier, I think, but she seems to be coping since I lifted her Petrification. She’s guarding Cormac. Do you know where we’ve are?_ **

**_Hold on, Granger – I’ll ask Potter._ **A few moments tick by.

 ** _He reckons you’re likely in McLaggen’s uncle’s secret hunting lodge in Suffolk – something about Luna knowing of it – he’s sent Gilmont to figure out the exact address. If she’s not back with the information in two minutes, I’ll use the bond to come to you myself. I’m confident that will work._** Draco’s joy and relief upon hearing of their victory plainly transmits across their telepathy.

 ** _I can’t wait to come home, Draco. I love you so much, do you know that? You’ve saved me, yet again._** Hermione’s eyes begin to fill as her adrenaline subsides.

**_You saved yourself, sweetheart. My clever, powerful,_ spectacular _Hermione. I love you more. Stay safe,_ ma petite _._**

After blowing Draco an ‘air kiss’ across their metaphysical link, Hermione spins on her heel to tell Pansy what’s happening. She interrupts the brunette witch vindictively whispering in Cormac’s ear… probably muttering dark promises of vengeance, if McLaggen’s terrified expression is any indicator of content.

Pansy nonchalantly rises to her feet. “He’s whining that one of his testes burst when my heel unfortunately connected with it… I’ve offered to cut it off with his own dagger, but he declined,” she drolly informs.

“Are we going to blow this popsicle stand, or what?” she quizzes.

“Draco said Harry is waiting on an address – but if they can’t find it, Draco will use our soul-bonded magic to Apparate here,” Hermione advises.

“Soul-bonded magic…? Aren’t you a dark horse, Pollyanna! Kept that little snippet to yourselves, didn’t you?” Pansy breathes in amazement. “I’m bloody glad you did, though – watching you decimate this unsuspecting arsehole was sensational.”

She peers curiously at their mewling, blood-spattered captive. “Whose idea was it to enspell your golden headband? Never mind – this screams ‘Lord Malfoy’. Nice work,” she nods approvingly.

Hermione chances broaching a sensitive subject. “Pansy, when we go back… will you please see a Healer? With me? I think we both need to decompress… and talk to a professional counsellor,” she hesitantly suggests. “Plus, that knife wound on your throat needs attention.”

“No. It’s a mere scratch – I’ll sort it myself when I go home,” Pansy’s flat refusal isn’t surprising, but it is disheartening. She drops her eyes back to Cormac, her face blank.

“I’m sorry– I’m so sorry I dragged you into this mess, Hermione– I never meant to endanger you, I was so fucking stupid, running away like I did! I just wanted to escape from the look on– ” Pansy’s mouth clamps closed in a stubborn, unhappy line.

“Oh, Pansy, none of this is your fault!” Hermione rushes to absolve her friend of guilt. “It’s all on Cormac, and Marcus – not you. Listen, I know you’re angry with Harry; but he never meant to hurt you, I’m positive of that. He was so angry with himself that he’d upset you. He was just shocked by Ron’s idiotic, jealous interference,” she consoles. “Please, just give Harry a chance to explain, and apologize, Pansy.”

“I don’t want to talk about Potter– or Weasley,” Pansy icily replies. “Leave it, please.”

Multiple pops ring out in the underground prison, preventing Hermione from attempting any further persuasion. She barely has time to delicately rub Pansy’s cold upper arm in a sympathetic gesture before they are surrounded by their ‘crew’ of witches and wizards.

Hermione’s jubilant grin deepens as Draco hurtles toward her, bundling her into his strong arms. His embrace is fearsomely tight and all-encompassing; she isn’t sure which of them is shaking more, as they tenaciously wrap around each other.

“My beautiful witch– _ma petite lionne_ – my sweet, smart, savage Hermione– I love you so, I love you, I love you– “ Draco smothers her hair, face and neck in dozens of trembling little kisses. Their noses bump as Hermione fervidly attempts to return each smooch.

“Oh, hell– sorry, Draco– let me kiss you back, _mon chéri_!” Hermione half-laughs, half-reproves, as Draco’s campaign to rain kisses on every inch of her available skin shows no sign of abating. “I love you too, my sexy Slytherin wizard! Kiss my mouth, kiss me properly,” she commands, in her bossiest tones.

Before Draco energetically complies, Hermione absently perceives Ginny and Luna descending on Pansy, hugging her carefully. Harry, Gilmont and Faulkner encircle Cormac’s hog-tied form, though Harry’s fierce expression briefly transforms to raw longing and regret as he stares at Pansy’s down bent head. Blaise, Theo and Viktor swap scowls as they glance around the tricked-out torture chamber.

Draco’s blazing kiss wipes all other thoughts from Hermione’s overjoyed mind; she wholly succumbs to the bliss she always receives from his kiss… his touch… his love. As their caress amplifies and grows ever more passionate, Hermione is vaguely conscious of their friends gasping.

Their recently conjoined magic is determined to put on a show, it seems; firefly-like pinpricks of multicoloured light circulate about them, scattering to swirl playfully around their companions’ heads. Draco reluctantly disconnects their lips to bat irritably at the mystic swarm.

“Malfoy – that’s our magic you’re swatting at!” Hermione giggles, euphoric at being reunited with him.

“It can piss off and give me five damned minutes to kiss my girl silly, can’t it?” Draco grumbles. “And what are you lot rubbernecking at? Anyone would think you’d never seen a supernatural manifestation of pure love and power before.”

“Come on, Hermione – let’s get out of here, my warrior queen.”

“Hold up, you two,” Harry chimes in. “We need to take your statements – the sooner the better. Gilmont, Luna: can you please escort Miss Parkinson back to the Ministry, and make her comfortable in my office? I’ll organize a Healer to meet you there.’

“Faulkner, I’ll need you to return to the Gala and organize the release of the party-goers. Find Pritchard-Hawes and ask him to ready a cell at Azkaban– I’m not wasting time holding this prick in one of the DMLE’s detention cells. We’ve enough evidence to imprison him for decades.’

“Viktor – would you please see Ginny back safely; and Blaise and Theo, you can go home, I’ll notify you tomorrow if I require statements from you,” Harry concludes.

Draco arrogantly corrects, “No deal, Potter – we’re heading home. We’re going to have a hot, cleansing bath together, and then we’re going to go to bed. You can come by in the morning… _late_ in the morning,” he gruffly underscores.

“I want to go with Luna and Pansy,” Blaise argues. “Theo, can you please collect Gelsy for me, when you pick up Wirey?”

“Shit – I forgot about Kreacher,” Harry guiltily exclaims. “Nott, if you wouldn’t mind sending him home for me too, please?”

“Bloody house elf party! Look, we’ll send them back ourselves when we get home, alright? Or they can stay over, I really have no fucks left to give. Hermione’s exhausted, and if I stay here any longer I’ll kill that slimy worm on the floor myself,” Draco snipes. “I’ll thank you all properly tomorrow.”

Hermione lays her tired head against Draco’s heart. _He’s right – I’ve crashed all of a sudden. Too much excitement for one day, as Dad likes to say._

“Draco... maybe everyone can come back to the townhouse when they’ve finished at the Ministry,” she sleepily cajoles. “Please? I want to make sure they’re all OK… especially Pansy.”

“Like I can deny you anything, Granger,” Draco cavils, his glad smile belying his complaint.

He speaks authoritatively to the rest of the group. “Alright, you can drop in when you’re done– but if we’re still upstairs when you arrive, collect your elves and go: I won’t be held responsible for my actions if you wake up my girlfriend. And be prepared for Macdolas to be guarding the Floo with extreme righteousness, once he learns of what’s gone on tonight,” he cautions.

“Thank you, Malfoy. See you soon, guys.” Hermione pins a quiet smile on her face and waves goodbye to her friends.

**_Take me home, please, Draco._ **

**_With pleasure. Hold tight, Hermione… I have you, mon âme sœur._ **

* * *

**French translation:** _mon âme sœur –_ my soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks also to:  
> @padore for kindly allowing me to borrow the term 'arsehat' (with a nod to silly husbands worldwide 😂);  
> @DS_ds for suggesting the stiletto heel as a weapon (Pansy had no problem getting on board with that idea 😁);  
> and @CarrieMaxwell, for prompting Cormac getting hit with the trifecta of losing his hands, balls, and life (though I realize I've not fully delivered on those wishes 🙄).
> 
> I hope you are not disappointed by Cormac retaining his miserable life. I did think seriously about having him draw his last breath at the hands of the two angry witches; but in the end, I thought it was better for Hermione and Pansy's mental health to allow him to live.
> 
> Also, I quite enjoy the imagery of him bound and bashed, feebly twitching and crying on a dirty basement floor... thoroughly trounced by the women he grossly underestimated and abused. 
> 
> xo VJ


	62. Corollary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @nanny922 and @DS_ds.  
> Thank you both so much for your wonderful support and insightful comments; and especially for your superb suggestion of the card game featured in this chapter (and for graciously allowing me to use it). I hope you like the humour 😁.
> 
> Many thanks to my everlastingly patient and brilliant beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5; I truly appreciate your generous assistance and guidance. You're the best! 😍
> 
> I'd also like to say a huge thank you to everyone who's still reading, especially for your amazing response to the last chapter. Your feedback and ideas are incredibly inspiring, and I'm so grateful for all your support.💜
> 
> I meant to cover a few more things in this latest update... but the house elves took over. Sorry.
> 
> Rest assured I'll soon address the side pairings in much more detail, as well as investigating how the would-be rapists formed their evil alliance, and the punishments they will face. 
> 
> I'm not sure how many more chapters are left in this story, but I have lots more still to write. 
> 
> Thank you very much for being a part of it.  
> 💗😊💗 VJ

**Trigger warning: angst, allusions to past sexual abuse, panic attack**

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

Carefully guiding Hermione out of the townhouse’s hearth, Draco can do naught but gape incredulously at the scene before them. Hermione claps a hand to her astonished mouth to mute her involuntary chuckle.

The living room is a pigsty. The powder blue sofa is out of alignment (as though it has been roughly cannoned into by a bunch of three foot tall creatures), and the coffee table contains the picked-over remains of Draco’s own earlier snack platter, as well as being covered in dirty glasses and bowls of sugar-rich snacks. Chocolates, lollies, fudge… Draco’s eyes narrow as he spies his favourite Hotel Chocolat Super Thin Mint Truffles have also been savaged.

 _I was saving those to share with Hermione… the greedy little shits,_ he crossly reflects.

The more alarming issue is the confronting _(appalling)_ sight of Wireceaster, sprawled inelegantly on his back on the blue corduroy beanbag – dressed only in a pair of sagging white Y-front underpants. The black silk ribbon tied incongruously around one side of his waxed and shaped long ivory moustache flutters every time the German elf emits a raucous snore.

On the couch behind him lies Gelsomina _(still clothed in her steel-blue uniform, thank Salazar)_ ; she too is snoring, though her little snorting puffs are drowned out by Wirey’s wall of sound. A red jelly snake is stuck to her right cheek, and her honey brown hair is wildly loosed from its bun. An array of pint-sized clothes are strewn haphazardly across the furniture and floor.

“ _Ma petite_ … am I hallucinating, or are there a couple of passed-out elves in our lounge room?” Draco whispers.

Hermione answers between giggles. “You’re not dreaming them, Malfoy, I assure you. Looks like they had a whale of a time in our absence, doesn’t it?”.

“A whale wouldn’t have left such a wretched shambles,” Draco carps, gesturing crankily to the mess of food on the table, and the room at large. “Where is Macdolas – and Ruibby? And Kreacher? Surely _he_ didn’t partake in this fey bacchanalia?”.

On cue, Macdolas skedaddles through the doorway, Ruibby hot on his heels. Draco squinches shut his eyes as quickly as he can, but it is too late: the image of the hastily-dressed, rumpled and reddened elfish couple is already burned on his retinas.

_Salazar’s stockings – there’s little doubt as to how the randy diminutive lovers have been occupying their time. A pox on Potter for suggesting this foolish get-together – he can bloody well host the next G.R.E.A.S.E.R.S. meeting at his own place. No, he can host the lot of the dratted fan club’s gatherings._

Draco reluctantly opens his eyes as Macdolas stridently proclaims, “Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger were not expected to return this soon!”

“Obviously,” Draco channels his late Potions professor with his deep, dour response. “Care to explain what you’ve done to Wireceaster, Macdolas? Or why Gelsomina has a sweet pasted to her face? Have you been raiding the Manor’s wine cellar again?”.

“Macdolas takes high umbrage at such accusations, Master Malfoy! Macdolas and Ruibby offer only soda- and juice-based refreshments, but the Wirey smuggles in a flask of bottomless peach schnapps, and rashly dares Signorina Gelsy to a drinking challenge after losing to her at strip poker!” Macdolas shrilly defends.

Hermione has abandoned her efforts to keep quiet; she braces her hands on her knees and laughs unreservedly. Ruibby joins in with her high, piping giggles, while Macdolas hurriedly stuffs his Robin Hood shirt back into his breeches and maintains an affronted expression.

“Why is there a ribbon tied to Wirey’s moustache?” Draco randomly questions, still struggling to process ‘strip poker’. _If only Father could see this mind-boggling panorama… wait, the Polaroid will immortalize the moment._ He reminds himself to grab it before they head upstairs.

Macdolas snickers, “Signorina Gelsy tells the Wirey he must wear her hair ribbon for a day, as a symbol of her crushing victory, twice over. Ruibby says they have unresolved sexual tenses,” he pompously explains.

“’Tension’, not ‘tenses’,” Draco absentmindedly corrects. “Where was Kreacher when all this tomfoolery was occurring? You haven’t gotten him snockered too, have you?”.

Mac shakes his head. “Master Kreacher gives us a stern lecture about not harassing Her Grace Lady Granger, especially directed at the Wirey for not asking for consent when grossly slobbering over Her Grace’s hand,” he screws up his nose and impatiently pushes his mussed carroty red hair back behind his ear. “Master Kreacher direly warns us to not partake in the strip poker or the schnapps, but Signorina Gelsomina and the Wirey do not listen, Master Malfoy.”

He pauses for dramatic effect. “And then– ”

Kreacher interrupts Mac’s histrionic oration, shuffling swiftly into the lounge from the kitchen; the ancient elf is crouched over a small bundle of black fur he holds protectively against his concave chest. Draco blinks as he registers… _a kitten?_ The tiny creature’s bright yellow eyes are sleepy and content.

Ruibby rushes forward. “Master Malfoy, we hear a scratching at the back door, Ruibby’s brave beau Macdolas arms himself and investigates–”

“We think at first it is a bat– ” Macdolas eagerly interrupts.

“No, a rat– ” Ruibby argues.

“It be a cat,” Kreacher austerely intones, his gnarled finger delicately petting between the purring kitten’s ears. “Kreacher bathes the little one before he feeds her tunafish and cream.”

“May we be keeping her, Master Malfoy? She is but a poor wee stray, in need of a happy home… Please?” Ruibby implores, clasping her hands together and impossibly enlarging her violet eyes.

 _Ah, Mac – good luck ever denying this one anything._ Draco is about to grudgingly grant his permission when Hermione minutely shakes her head, cutting her eyes to Kreacher’s crestfallen demeanour.

 ** _Draco, look at him – he loves that little kitten already. Please… tell them that Harry has been thinking about getting a pet, and that – I don’t know – you’re allergic anyway?_** Hermione’s clear voice resounds in his mind.

 ** _Very well, Granger – but it’s up to you to convince Harry, agreed?_** Draco responds. She nods instantly.

“No – I’m allergic to cats,” Draco fibs. “And Potter mentioned at dinner that he wants a cat – something about keeping down the Doxy infestations at Grimmauld Place,” he improvises.

Kreacher opens his wide mouth as if to object to the slur on his housekeeping skills, only to close it again as Draco stares meaningfully at him.

“But Master Malfoy suffers no ill effects from the Crookshanks?” Macdolas shrewdly observes. Ruibby pouts, clearly put out that her wheedling wish has been refused.

“He’s half-Kneazle, that cancels out the allergens.” Draco quickly changes the subject. “Kreacher, Harry will be here in a while… I’m not sure how long until his arrival.”

He turns to address the whole room. “Now, Macdolas – stay calm, please. We’ve something to tell you, about what happened tonight– ”

“Her Grace Lady Granger has blood on her face!” Draco’s attempt to keep Macdolas from freaking out fails immediately, as Mac darts over to Hermione, bristling with savage concern as he closely scrutinizes the sparse dots of McLaggen’s blood speckled across her forehead.

Hermione lays an affectionate hand on her elfin bodyguard’s bony shoulder. “I’m OK, Mac – I promise. It’s not my blood. We – Pansy and I – were abducted by Cormac McLaggen, and briefly held captive in his dungeon. We overpowered him before he could hurt us, and he’s on his way to Azkaban right now; Flint will join him there to await trial, once St Mungo’s deems him fit to be medically discharged.”

The ferocious growl that bursts forth from Macdolas’s skinny throat gives Draco goosebumps. He shrieks, “ **DEATH TO McLAGGEN!** ” before dashing from the room; Kreacher prudently steps out of his way before he is knocked over.

Craning to see past the doorway, Draco is satisfied that Macdolas is heading back to his bedroom, instead of Disapparating from the property.

“Mistress Granger is well?” Kreacher tersely enquires, magicking a clean, damp, antiseptic-smelling cloth into his knobby hand and offering it to Hermione. Murmuring his thanks, Draco takes it and gently wipes clean her fatigued (yet radiant) face. He adjusts his over-large black formal robes before they can slip off her shoulder, his fingers lingering to lovingly caress her cheek and neck.

“I am well… just a bit tired, Kreacher,” Hermione smiles. “What will you name your little kitty?” she dips her chin towards the sleepy jet feline.

“Boadicea… Little Boadie,” Kreacher mutters. “If Master Potter does not object.”

Kreacher’s weathered face darkens as he rumbles, “McLaggen is injured? Hurt badly? He does not… he does not touch Mistress Granger, nor Mistress Parkinson? Kreacher knows many ways to punish McLaggen and Flint for daring to imperil our witches… _many ways_ …”

“Thank you, Kreacher, but they both will be severely prosecuted, don’t worry. Yes, Cormac reached for the enspelled headband Draco gave me, and it sliced off the tip of his finger,” Hermione gleefully informs. “And Pansy – erm, Pansy accidentally trod on Cormac’s testicles… repeatedly. She has a small cut on her throat, but Harry is going to ensure she receives treatment.”

She turns to Draco with a worried frown. “I hope Pansy talks to a crisis counsellor as soon as possible, Draco – do you think we should pop back to the Ministry to make sure she does?” Hermione gnaws at her bottom lip.

“Absolutely not – would you deprive Potter of his burning desire to grovel, and be of service to her? Pfft… and you call yourself a matchmaker,” Draco clucks teasingly. “No, sweetheart: I’ll ask Macdolas to make you a cup of chamomile tea, then we’re heading upstairs. I insist upon running you a hot bath and taking care of you, my beautiful, exhausted witch.”

“Only if you promise to share it with me,” Hermione winks, slipping her arm around Draco’s waist.

Kreacher’s horrified cough causes her to blush. “Um – I mean, that sounds like a plan, Draco.”

There is a crash from the hallway; Draco breaks away from Hermione to investigate.

“What the deuce?!” he exclaims, as Macdolas reappears in the door frame… hopelessly burdened with all manner of steel weaponry. The seneschal staggers as he raises the biggest sword.

“Master Malfoy apprises Macdolas of the exact whereabouts of the evil McLaggen! Macdolas avenges Her Heroic Golden Grace Lady Hermione Jean Granger and the Plucky and Pulchritudinous Mistress Parkinson – Macdolas severs the head of the Beast Cormac with but one blow of his biting blade!”.

He punctuates his bloodthirsty vow with an ululating scream that has Ruibby clapping her hands over her pointed ears. Kreacher growls his disapproval as Boadie yowls in fright, her tiny claws scrabbling at his plain black suit.

“Fool of an elf! Do not disgrace your masters, nor your people, with such ill-disciplined displays!” Kreacher hisses, soothing his new pet with gentle strokes and resettling her into his jacket.

Tweaking the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, Draco wearily admonishes, “Macdolas, you look utterly ludicrous – and you’re more likely to amputate your own foot than wreak havoc on McLaggen’s neck. Besides, Apparating into Azkaban is impossible, and any attempts to circumvent that will have you instantly arrested and tossed in a cell… You ferine little shrimpet,” he sighs.

He grabs the heavy broadsword, laying it on the floor before divesting Macdolas of numerous knives and daggers of various sizes, tucked into his studded leather belt… plus a fencing rapier, a Swiss army knife, a cutlass, and a wicked-looking crossbow.

“Is that all of it? Macdolas?” Draco prompts, as Mac’s eyes shift tellingly to his footwear. Draco pulls out a stiletto from one boot, and four types of shurikens from the other. “Japanese throwing stars – really? I’m certain I confiscated most of these weapons previously, mate,” he chips.

“Macdolas re-equips himself from the Manor armoury,” he sullenly admits. “’Tis a bodyguard’s right and responsibility to be properly outfitted in the weapons of warfare, Master Malfoy.”

“Not when said bodyguard has been warned that his enthusiasm for weaponry outweighs his ability and experience with them,” Draco contends. “And please keep your voice down, I don’t want a hung-over Wirey on our hands. You’ll return all these items to the Manor tomorrow, is that understood? And I expressly forbid any more weapon hoarding.’

“Now – can you please make a cup of herbal tea for Hermione, and bring it upstairs, along with some chocolate biscuits… assuming you haven’t eaten _them_ , too,” Draco purses his mouth as he indicates the ravaged after dinner mints. “Hermione, would you like anything else, ma _chérie_?”

“Just some paracetamol and ibuprofen please, Mac,” Hermione quietly requests. Her face falls as she sadly remarks, “Draco – we never got to dance together in all our finery tonight! I was so looking forward to it.”

Gathering her close, Draco presses a soft kiss to her temple. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And I’ll arrange for a replacement laurel headband, hmmm? Let’s go upstairs, let me look after you,” he coaxes.

“But what about the others…” Hermione trails off, obviously fading fast.

“I’ll send word to Potter; we’ll host a late brunch for everyone tomorrow, how does that sound? I think we all could use some time to recover, first,” Draco suggests.

Hermione yawns. “You’re probably right – but let me send a Patronus to Harry, that will be quicker.” She digs her wand from Draco’s robe pocket and produces her silvered otter in a matter of moments.

Ruibby enacts a light round of applause as the little phantasmal mammal gambols across the living room floor. “So pretty, Your Grace Lady Granger!”.

“Thank you, Ruibby,” Hermione acknowledges, before speaking the message for her Patronus to convey.

“Harry, we’re home safe. All the elves are staying the night: can you please ask everyone to reconvene here in the morning? We’ll host brunch at about eleven o’clock. Please take care of Pansy – make sure she sees a Healer… and talks to a counsellor. Oh, and Harry? You have a new kitten, her name is Boadie. Thanks, love.”

The silvern otter tumbles once more before vanishing out the window.

“Kreacher does not wish to impose… Kreacher returns to Grimmauld Place,” the elderly elf mutters, appearing uncomfortable.

“Nonsense, Kreacher – there’s a spare bedroom upstairs, and it would be best to not subject your kitten to any more changes of scenery for a bit… and if you stick around, Luna can give Boadie a once-over at brunch, make sure she’s healthy,” Draco persuades.

“Please, Kreacher,” Hermione lends her support. “We’d appreciate your help with cleaning up the house tomorrow, and overseeing Macdolas and Ruibby preparing the brunch.”

She holds up a warning finger before Mac can whine about not needing a supervisor. “Isn’t that right, Mac? Ruibby? Good. You can show Kreacher to his room – but don’t start cleaning up in the morning until Wirey and Gelsy awaken, OK? Please send up our tea and biscuits to the bathroom. Goodnight.”

She reaches for Draco’s hand, smiling beatifically as she leads him from the lounge; his heart thumps faster as he considers how fantastically lucky he is.

 _I could have lost Hermione tonight – I could have lost her forever._ The terrifying thought chills his blood and chokes his breath. Dread swamps him as he thinks of all the atrocious things that McLaggen could have done.

Draco clutches the newel post at the bottom of the staircase, halting their progress.

“Malfoy? It’s OK, Draco– look at me, I’m fine. We’re fine,” Hermione soothes, hugging him tightly as his whole body shakes in delayed reaction. “Breathe, _mon amour_.”

He releases his iron grip on the wooden stair cap, burying his face in Hermione’s neck. It takes him a full minute of simply soaking in her essence before he can bring himself to speak.

“I’m sorry – everything just hit me – I was petrified, Hermione. It’s not that I didn’t believe in you– I do, I always will – but I can’t– I never thought we could be together, and now– now I can’t live without you…” Draco’s voice cracks and fades out.

“Hey, hey – I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? Wild Hippogriffs couldn’t drag me away from you now, Draco,” Hermione cradles his chin in her palm, until his distressed eyes meet her shining ones. “Tonight was rough, and I admit to being scared stupid at times – but we got through it… _together_. You and me, Lord Malfoy: we make an awesome team, if I do say so myself,” she cheekily boasts.

“I think we’re both going to need some serious therapy, and it will take some time to settle into our ‘new normal’ – whatever that means – but the danger is behind us, Draco. We’re free to live our life together, without fear constantly dogging our every move.” Hermione pauses, looking oddly shy.

“I want you to know… I can’t imagine my world without you at the centre of it. Forget all the soul-bond ramifications for a moment – this is just me, Hermione Jean Granger, standing in front of the man I love with all my heart… telling you that I love you, Draco Lucius Malfoy.” She presses a feather-soft, tender kiss to his cool lips.

“Come have a bath with me, and I’ll grant you a chance to reciprocate in the love-avowal stakes,” she entices, stepping to his side to wrap her arm around Draco’s waist and nudge her head against his shoulder.

Draco temporarily resists climbing the stairs with her to solemnly declare, “It might take me a lifetime to fully express how much I love you, Granger. There’s no getting rid of me now, I’m afraid.”

“I’m counting on it, Malfoy.”

* * *

“Please stay still, Pansy; Mediwitch Martha is almost finished.” Luna’s sweet, concerned voice makes it impossible for Pansy to snap at her.

 _Damn Potter for sneakily instructing Luna to stick to me like glue. I just want to get out of here before he returns – I want to go home, take a full dose of Dreamless Sleep and sink into blessed oblivion for the next eight or so hours. Is that really too much to ask, after the fucking night I’ve had?!_ Pansy’s jaw aches as tension builds from her grimly clamped teeth.

“All done,” the bubbly young Healer announces, flying the used swabs, ointments and packaging into her medical kit. “Now, it’s up to you whether you’d like me to counsel you alone, or with Luna present; everyone’s different, but many people often find having a support person in the room beneficial.”

“It’s a moot point – I don’t want any bloody counselling, as I’ve repeatedly stated,” Pansy growls, glaring at the baby-faced Martha. _Honestly, has she even finished school? She’s sporting lopsided pigtails, for the love of snakes._

“But, Pansy… if you don’t talk over and process your feelings, you won’t be spiritually healthy – and I promised Harry and Hermione that I wouldn’t leave your side until you were well,” Luna sorrowfully points out. The little blonde shrugs defeatedly. “I’ll just have to move in with you and ask for a leave of absence from Hogwarts, until you’re ready for therapy.”

Pansy coughs out a dry, humourless laugh. “Way to apply the emotional blackmail, Luna. I’d look like an absolute whiny bitch if I didn’t accede to the wretched counselling, now.”

Admitting defeat, Pansy irritably waves at the door. “Alright, alright, I’ll talk to Martha, OK? But in private, please – not that I don’t appreciate your support, Luna... but I’d rather do this alone.”

“Of course. I’ll be outside, waiting with Theo.” Luna affectionately pats Pansy’s tensed hand on her way out of the room. “I’m proud of you, Pansy. You’re strong, and courageous: but it’s not weakness to accept a little help now and then. It’s just science, really… we cannot achieve growth without change.” She smiles felicitously, carefully closing the door behind her.

 _Luna Lovegood… you’re almost too good to be true. I wish I had even a smidgeon of your sweet spirit… well, that’s not true, I do delight in being a bitch._ Pansy’s lips curve in an almost-smile.

“She’s a smart cookie, your friend,” Mediwitch Martha genially remarks. “It helps to surround yourself with people who love and support you.”

 _Here we go._ Pansy agitatedly bounces upright from the shabby visitor’s chair she was forced to perch on while her throat wound was being treated. The voluminous folds of the crimson Auror robes (that Potter had tenaciously insisted on lending her before he’d allowed her to leave McLaggen’s basement) swoosh audibly with her jerky movements.

“Listen, Mediwitch Martha– ”

“Just Martha’s fine, I told you that before, Pansy– ”

“Maybe for _you_ it is – and since when did we start referring to Healers by their first names? What’s wrong with retaining some traditional formality?” Pansy gripes. “Where was I going with this? Right: I agreed to this session to get Luna off my back, but I don’t want to talk about my sloppy emotions and fears and secrets and trauma for the next however long, alright?!”.

“So you lied to your friend? Your friend who loves you enough to put her life on hold to ensure your well-being?” Martha calmly asks. “That’s interesting.”

“Oh no no no – don’t start on me with that psychobabble – I know all the tricks of your trade, _Martha_ ,” Pansy irefully declares. “This isn’t my first trip down Morbid Memory Lane, I’ve–” she abruptly breaks off, throat seizing as a horrible mix of old and new abusive memories inundate her consciousness. _Cormac cruelly twisting my breast… other despised hands, moving across my frozen body… threats of domination… threats of alienation… pain… hopelessness… abandonment…_

She isn’t aware she is swaying unsteadily until Martha gently steers her back into the dusty chair. “I’m sorry, Pansy. You don’t have to say a word, if you don’t wish to. Please know that this is a safe space for you, and I am here for you. You’re safe now, Pansy.”

Hunching in on herself, Pansy trembles as she brings her holly wood wand to her chest; she hasn’t relinquished her white-knuckled grip on the wand since Hermione gave it back to her in that repulsive dungeon.

“I hate feeling powerless… I never want to feel like a victim again,” her words are little more than a hoarse croak. “I’ve worked really hard to get to where I am today… and right now, I feel like a frightened, lonely little girl again – it hurts, Martha. I’m hurting,” she croaks.

The dam has broken. Pansy sobs convulsively. _This is going to be the Ugliest Cry of all Ugly Cries, she thinks dolefully. Ah, fuck it._

* * *

Harry watches in grim satisfaction as Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes and his Auror team prepare a snivelling, bleating Cormac McLaggen for transportation to Azkaban. The magical black chains Pansy trussed around Cormac in an efficient hog-tie are replaced with thick manacles and a metal muzzle.

“He looks like a biter; best not to take any chances,” Pritchard-Hawes laconically states. His dark brown eyes rake appraisingly over Harry’s drained face.

“Good job, Potter. Pass on my congratulations to Gilmont and Faulkner. We’ve a long week ahead of us, but I recommend you go home and get a decent night’s sleep, Harry. You look near dead on your feet.”

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll return to the Ministry and ensure all’s under control there before I leave for the night,” Harry answers. _I need to see Pansy; I need to see for myself that she’s going to be OK._ He claws at his hair in frustration at the delay.

“You’ll want to check on Miss Parkinson, I reckon… as a material witness, of course,” Pritchard-Hawes slyly observes. “She did a real number on McLaggen’s testes… accidentally stepped on them, you say?” he probes, not bothering to disguise his approving smirk.

“Correct, sir. Stiletto heels, you understand.” Harry folds in his malicious grin.

“Ah. As regards my earlier recommendation, Potter: it’s an order. Finalize the most pressing business at the Ministry tonight – then go home, sleep the sleep of the just, and do not come back into work until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. Don’t make me have you physically removed from the premises, Harry – I mean it. You’re worked tirelessly on this case for weeks, and you’re in grave danger of burning out.” The Head Auror fixes Harry with a stern stare.

“Agreed?”.

“Yes, sir,” Harry reluctantly accedes, fidgeting at his jacket buttons. “Thank you.”

Pritchard-Hawes briefly claps his lanky hand on Harry’s shoulder. “When you see Miss Parkinson – tell her the Ministry thanks her, too,” his tiny wink could almost be construed as a facial tic. “Goodnight, Potter.”

Harry has just completed giving final directions to the bustling Aurors collecting evidence in McLaggen’s basement when Hermione’s otter Patronus cavorts around his trouser legs. His mouth drops open as his best friend’s final blithe information about having a new kitten sinks in.

 _I’ll leave off thinking about whatever the hell that means until tomorrow’s brunch._ He pulls off his spectacles to rub at his blurring eyes. _It’s over… or it soon will be. Hermione and Pansy are safe… and we’ve taken a couple of dangerous, disgusting predators off the streets._

Harry’s flare of exultation withers as he soberly considers that Flint and McLaggen undeniably had help: the research potioneers, the underground network, possibly even Walden MacNair. _We’ll find those bastards, too – I won’t stop until each rock spider is located and prosecuted._

_But right now… I have to figure out the best way to grovel at Pansy’s feet and beg her forgiveness – for acting like a judgmental dickhead when Ron barged in on us. Shit. This is not going to be easy, not by a long shot._

Harry nods curtly at his workmates before Disapparating back to the Ministry.

* * *

Pansy is almost asleep (leaning against Theo’s comforting shoulder) when a quiet knock sounds at the door.

“It’s me, Harry; may I come in?”.

Keeping her arm slung over Pansy’s back, Luna trills, “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you, Harry. Pansy wants to speak with you, before we leave.”

“Luna! I never said– ” Pansy’s eyes jolt open to collide with Harry’s intense emerald gaze as he slips inside his office. Her tummy flips as she takes in how spent and regretful he looks. Pansy hardens her resolve and staunchly ignores his pleading regard. _Not my problem_.

On her other side, Theo stands, stretching ostentatiously. “I’m feeling a bit stiff from these terrible excuses for chairs you have, Harry – might just go for a bit of a trot to loosen up. Luna, want to keep me company?”.

“Excellent idea, Theo. We’ll be back in a jiffy, Pansy. Then we can all head back to the townhouse,” Luna decrees.

“Ah, about that – Hermione sent me a message, she asked if everyone can come around for brunch, instead. About eleven, she said. The elves are staying there overnight, Theo,” Harry diffidently tells them.

Pansy senses him moving closer, though she doesn’t lift her sore and swollen eyes from her lap; her fingers continue to compulsively pleat at the borrowed scarlet uniform robes. _Go away, Harry Potter._

“Good, good – well, we can all stay at my place tonight, if that’s alright? I’ve plenty of spare rooms, and I’d rather not go home alone,” Theo softly admits.

“Lovely idea, Theo,” Luna springs up, threading her arm through his. “Pansy, we shan’t be long, dear.”

The pair walk outside before Pansy can do more than crossly chirrup in protest. Her attempt to rise is blocked as Harry kneels before her.

“Pansy, are you alright? How’s the cut on your neck? Was the Mediwitch helpful with crisis counselling?” Harry petitions.

Keeping her eyes studiously averted, Pansy answers in a monotone. “I’m fine; the cut will heal without scarring; I spoke to Martha. I can take care of myself, Auror Potter.”

“Hey – please, won’t you look at me? Just for a moment? There’s something I’d like – there’s something I need to say to you,” Harry entreats.

The urgency in his voice almost causes Pansy to rethink her pledge to keep her distance. _I don’t need more emotional baggage: after tonight’s therapy, I already feel like I’ve overpacked an entire Louis Vuitton luggage set… chockfull of overpriced angst and bullshit._

“I’d rather you didn’t – here, just let me get out of your robes and I’ll be on my way– ” Pansy manages to whack herself in the head as the long red sleeve catches on a hairpin buried in the bedraggled remains of her chignon.

“Hold on, you’re making it worse– wait– ” Pansy stops flailing as Harry’s gentle fingers brush against her neck. She fights the impulse to lean in to his benevolent touch.

Harry clumsily tucks the offending hairpin back into her straight brunette locks; Pansy struggles not to visibly quiver. He shifts his hands to rest on the arms of her seat as he speaks again. She bends forward a little, drawn by his warmth and spicy, musky scent.

“Pansy, I’m so sorry that I reacted badly when Ron interrupted us so rudely– and meanly. I never meant to imply that I thought less of you, just because –”

“ –Just because I had sexual intercourse with your best friend?” Pansy coolly replies. “I saw the expression on your face, Potter. It spoke volumes.”

She chances making eye contact, regretting it instantly as she realizes Harry’s nearness. His hair is adorably unkempt, and the smear marking one of his lenses has her reaching to wipe it clean before she can stop herself.

Harry holds perfectly still as Pansy removes his spectacles, his viridian green eyes trained on her face with heart-stopping intensity.

Polishing the glasses with the soft cotton of Harry’s Auror robes, Pansy holds her breath as she slides them back into place.

“You should take better care of yourself – and your things,” she grumbles.

“May I– may I hold your hand, please? I don’t want to trigger you… I can’t stop myself from wanting to touch you, Pansy.” Harry’s voice transmits his anxiety. “Not without your permission, of course.” His hand hovers above her lap, until she gives a minute nod.

Harry captures her fingers instantaneously, loosely wrapping her smaller hand in his. His work-roughened thumb delicately strokes her palm, as Pansy succumbs to the bliss of his tender caress. _I’ll doubtless despise myself for my weakness come tomorrow… but damn, Harry’s attention feels so good… like he_ cares _._

“Pansy, I apologize wholeheartedly for my poor reaction, in the ballroom. I truly never meant to hurt you, and I bitterly regret that I let Ron come between us… that I let his spite ruin a beautiful moment,” Harry’s words are quiet but unmistakably impassioned.

“Dancing with you was everything I dreamed it would be. You feel so right in my arms, Pansy. I’d give anything to go back to that moment, and to not hurt you with my idiotic, momentary lapse of reason. I’ll never forgive myself for being the impetus for placing you in danger– for upsetting you to the point where you were desperate to escape even being in the same room as me– Merlin, I’m sorry… when I think of what you suffered tonight– ” Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs crazily as his words dry up.

Pansy is shocked when a tear twists down Harry’s cheek. She lifts her pinkie in wonderment, blotting its path. _He’s crying… over me? **Me**??_ Pansy’s own eyes well as the extent of Harry’s concern and… affection swamps her sensitive psyche.

“Stop it– I already look like a clown, I’ve cried buckets tonight! I utterly detest crying, especially in front of people– just don’t, Potter!” she gulps.

“I wish you’d call me Harry again. I’m sorry I hurt you, Pansy. If you truly don’t want anything more to do with me, I promise to leave you in peace,” Harry mumbles.

 _This is what I told myself I wanted – so why can’t I confirm it aloud? Why am I still holding Harry’s hand, and feeling my heart crumple at his genuine, pained remorse? Why do I just want him to hold me tightly and tell me everything’s going to be OK?_ Pansy agonizes.

_Too many rotten, romantic fairy tales, probably. Sod it – I can’t do it… though I’m not ready to admit how vulnerable I am to him. Charming, bleeding-heart Gryffindors!_

“I accept your apology,” Pansy blurts. The relief and joy that flashes through Harry’s moist eyes kicks up her pulse.

“It’s not your fault – what happened, with McLaggen. It’s mine, for being an emotional fucking idiot and endangering my friends – Cormac called me a tethered goat, and I acted like one,” Pansy says. “Although Hermione delivered the headbutt,” she ruefully adds.

Harry’s small chuckle is more thankful than humorous. “None of this is your fault – none of it, Pansy.” His eyes darken as he snarls, “Flint and McLaggen: a primitive part of me wishes them both dead and buried, Pansy. The depravities they had planned for you– that fucking _dungeon_ –”

“Harry – I know. I know how you feel… I wanted to slit Cormac’s worthless throat, I kind of still do,” Pansy confesses. “But Hermione was right – it’s better that he lives out the rest of his miserable days in a tiny cell, stewing in bitterness, malice, and loneliness. And you need to question them both, to find out the true extent of their foul scheme, right?” she urges.

A pause, as Harry’s mouth works furiously.

“I know– and I know Hermione’s right– but when I think about what could have happened… Pansy, when I saw Cormac holding that dagger to your throat, I wanted to kill him on the spot – consequences be damned.”

Harry’s fierce gaze is steady as he appends, “I wasn’t thinking like an Auror, Pansy; I wanted him dead because he dared to harm you. _You_ ,” he stresses.

 _Morgana’s garter belt – how am I supposed to resist him, now?_ Pansy squeaks, “May I hug you, Har– oh!”

She curls her arms around Harry’s back as he fluidly stands, scooping her out of the chair and gingerly gathering her against his tremulous body.

“I always seem to be apologizing to you – it must be because I’m a hot-headed dummy,” Harry murmurs into her ear. Pansy cuddles as close as she dares, revelling in his muscularity, warmth, and wiry strength.

“Will you please give me another chance, Pansy? A chance for… us?” Harry asks, his tones low and uncertain.

Heart leaping wildly, Pansy draws back from their embrace to slowly respond, “I’ll… think about it. Harry– I don’t know if I have whatever it is you need… I’ve got some work to do, on myself,” she stumblingly explains. “What happened tonight… it’s made me face up to past issues I thought I’d properly handled. I don’t want to give you false hope that I– that we– ”

To her surprise, Harry takes her bumbling attempt at clarification with good grace.

He reaches for her hands, waiting for her to raise them in acceptance before lacing her fingers between his.

“Pansy – I’ll take whatever you’re ready, and willing, to give. There’s no rush… I’m not going anywhere,” he avers, smiling happily as her cheeks heat.

“Oh – um, OK,” Pansy blathers. “Here – your robes…” she starts to pull away her hands to reach for the hem, but is stymied by Harry’s rapid negation.

“Keep them for now, I’ve another set. I want you to stay warm, and get some rest,” Harry bosses. “I’ll see you at brunch, tomorrow?”. The hope in his words and visage is plain as day.

“Y-Yes,” she stammers. “I’ll launder your uniform, before I give it back, of course.”

“Please don’t, Pansy… I’d very much enjoy having my robes smell like you,” Harry grins.

Her flush deepens. _Cheeky, sexy flirt!_

A light tap at the door before Luna eagerly pokes her head around it. “Hullo! You two look like you’re… friends again?”. Her china blue eyes glitter with satisfied merriment. “Ready to go, Pansy? Poor Theo is grouching about needing his beauty sleep,” Luna jests.

“Yes, I’m ready. Goodnight… Harry,” Pansy tugs at their handhold, but Harry doesn’t release her fingers until he has dropped a little kiss to each wrist.

“Goodnight, Pansy,” he smiles broadly.

Pansy pivots at the door, unable to resist a final peek at the brunet Auror.

She ignores Luna’s giggle, staring incredulously as Harry Potter blows her not one, but two kisses. Pansy hurries out the door before her whole face catches fire, Luna close behind.

“You’re supposed to catch them, you know,” Luna chides. “What if they landed on me – or Theo?”.

“What’s that, Luna? More Nargles?” Theo absently queries, falling into step beside them as they move down the corridor.

“No, Theo – just Harry pitching love at Pansy,” Luna rejoins, sounding serenely smug.

“That’s nice,” yawns Theo. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

He offers the two witches his extended elbows; both tuck their arms through, smiling companionably at one another.

 _What a glorious, awful, traumatic, wonderful, strange night,_ Pansy marvels. She finally identifies the odd feeling floating somewhere in the vicinity of her bruised heart.

It feels like warm, soft cotton robes, and calloused hands; it sounds like a deep, confident tenor; it smells like cinnamon and clean male musk; and it looks a helluva lot like Harry James Potter.

_Hope. He gives me hope._

_And I’m a total, silly, helpless fool for it… for him._

_Dammit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks also to @Bex_is_a_Slytherin for suggesting that Kreacher sternly lecture the other elves on gaining consent as pertaining to their ardent adoration of Hermione and co.


	63. Co-operation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys
> 
> I'm posting a day early, as I am out of range most of the day tomorrow.
> 
> I did intend to include an extra scene in this chapter (Blaise returning Gussie's dropped badge and discovering the truth of her situation) but I ran out of time. I'll add it as soon as it's written, either onto this update, or at the start of the next.
> 
> Muchas gracias to my wonderful beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5 for her patience and wisdom. Rest assured that Blaise knows better when it comes to more important races! 😁😍
> 
> Thank you all very much for your readership and support; your encouragement buoys me, every day.
> 
> Hope you're all keeping safe, and well.  
> 💙😊💙VJ

_****Trigger warning: Ron is punched in the stomach in this chapter**** _

_Friday 21 March 2003: PM_

Blaise hustles to keep pace with the blur of motion that is Gus Gilmont, as they race to the Ministry’s Records Room. Despite his mind being primarily consumed with terror for his friends – and his towering rage for McLaggen – Blaise appreciates Gus’s blurring speed and grace, as her tall, strong form dashes through the building. _For the aesthetics... but also because she’s sexy as hell and seems to have zero awareness of it._

Gus turns at the locked door of the Records Room, catching Blaise mid-admiring glance. _Uh-oh_.

“You alright?” she brusquely asks, not bothering for his reply as she whips out her Auror badge and points it at the keyhole, rattling off her identification and immediately barging through the portal. “Follow me – if you can’t keep up, stay out of my way, OK?”.

“Got it.” Blaise doesn’t bother defending himself, aware that time is of the essence. He attempts to push aside his dread for the girls. _They’ll be OK – they’re smart, brave, powerful witches – and Draco would move heaven and earth to keep them both safe–_

“Zabini! No wool-gathering, you can do that on your own time. Listen - you take the “Ts” cabinet – I work with these people and I have little confidence in their ability to file correctly; this document is just as likely to be under ‘Tiberius’ as is it ‘McLaggen’,” Gus dryly instructs. “Holler if you find it – and don’t worry so: it’s a useless emotion right now.”

_Damn, she’s prickly. Why is that so hot? I’ve obviously wasted far too much of my time with simpering females._ Blaise nods, quickly rifling through the huge filing cabinet as Gus does the same with the ‘M’ cupboard at the head of the previous row.

_Harry was right when he said Gus is skilled at rapidly processing information – she’s already zipped through three drawers, compared to my plodding single. Well, better to make certain I’ve checked thoroughly; missing locating the address due to fumbled haste could be catastrophic._ Blaise thumbs through the file tags as fast as he dares.

“Got it!” Gus crows in triumph. “Some dipshit shoved in in the ‘M-os’ – but this is definitely it.” She speedily scans the multi-parchment will and testament, brows furrowing as her finger slides down the pages. “Blah blah blah… Gringotts account… primary residence in Islington… collection of antique teaspoons – kinky… twelve stuffed owls – yuck… _YES_! ‘To my sole heir, Cormac Houkin McLaggen, I bequeath my hunting lodge situated at 78 Spinney Road, Ampton’ – bingo!”.

Gus spins on her heel, grinning jubilantly. “Hurry up, Blaise! We’ve got to tell Harry,” she brushes past him urgently on her way back out the door, either not realizing or noticing that she’s used his Christian name for the first time.

Blaise lets the silly grin on his face linger for a few seconds, though he vanishes it entirely as Gus hollers, “Get a wriggle on, I need to relock this room – stat.” Shoving the rolled-up parchment deep into her pocket, she reaches out as though to yank him the last few feet, but drops her hand to her side as his long strides easily propel him out the door.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Blaise cannot resist the little dig as Gus side-eyes him after securing the Records Room. “Race you?” he pertly challenges.

Gus scoffs. “That’s hardly fair, is it?”

“I’d better give you a head start!” they exchange startled glances after speaking the sentence in perfect unison.

Recovering first, Gus picks up the skirts of her ruby-red formal Auror robes and streaks down the hallway toward the elevator bank. The funny little daisy stuck in the top of her braided dark caramel coronet bobs precariously as she sprints just ahead of Blaise.

_Adorable… just like the faint, chuffing giggles that slip from her, every few steps._ Blaise hears himself chuckling as he dashes behind in hot pursuit. He momentarily considers letting her win, but decides Gus would not appreciate it – and would likely hex him for sexist conduct. They are neck-and-neck as the elevators come in sight, both heaving deep breaths.

Flinging himself inside the nearest lift, Blaise laughs outright at Gussie’s peeved, disbelieving expression at his victory (though she hides her face by aggressively punching at the appropriate buttons to return them to the Atrium).

“You did well – there’s no shame in coming second, you know,” Blaise patronizes, cackling as Gus’s head whips around in outrage. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Did it cost extra?” Gus acerbically enquires. “Having to widen your doorways to fit your monstrously fat head through them, I mean?”. She hums snidely, polishing her short nails on her sleeve in a display of studied disinterest.

“Tsk, tsk… I never took you for a sore loser, Gu– Auror Gilmont,” Blaise teases. “And I assure you – the only thing I needed to have custom-made in my home was my _huge_ bed.”

The recurring image he has lately been obsessed with – that of a gloriously nude Gussie spread out on said bed, languidly beckoning at him to join her – flashes through Blaise’s mind as he utters the unplanned retort. _Oops_.

He is immensely grateful Gus isn’t given time to react (beyond her parted mouth and wide eyes), as the elevator swings to a stop.

“After you,” Blaise nods, risking a light, directing touch to her shoulder blade. Gus darts out of the blocks like an Olympic athlete.

Blaise shakes his head, hoping to clear the residual fuzziness caused by Gus’s proximity, before he too jogs back to their waiting group.

_You’ve had infatuations for witches before – OK, mild fixations on engaging in consensual, fun sex with them – just let this go, she’s already told you she isn’t interested,_ Blaise reminds himself. He valiantly looks away for half a second before his dark eyes return to the enticing movements of her generous arse and thighs.

_I could be in trouble here,_ he sighs quietly.

_Scratch that – I believe I’ve met my match – and she already knows she’s too good for me._

_Shit._

* * *

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

“Gilmont – you did a great job tonight. I’m very proud to have you on my team.” Harry firmly shakes Gus’s hand, smiling as he adds, “Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes asked me to pass on his appreciation, too. Is Faulkner still taking statements from McLaggen’s table?”.

“Yes, sir – and we located McLaggen’s Gala date in a locked cubicle in the men’s toilets. He appears to have Stunned her in a hurry when he realized Miss Parkinson was vulnerable; the young woman is groggy, but otherwise unharmed,” Gus speaks composedly, despite her blush at Harry’s praise. “We’ve sent her to the Healer, just to be on the safe side. She seems more angry than distressed – apparently McLaggen promised her ‘a night to remember’,” Gus wryly informs.

“Ever the wanker,” Harry mutters. “Alright, I’ll head to the ballroom now. Thank you also for organizing the Mediwitch so promptly – Miss Parkinson has assured me her injuries are not serious.”

Gus wonders if her boss is even vaguely aware of how his whole face lights up just from speaking Pansy’s name. She covers her smile with her hand; not that Potter would have noticed it, since his eyes remain dreamily unfocused behind his spectacles.

“Sir? Shall we head there now?” she prompts.

“Hmmm… what? No, no, “ Harry waves off the suggestion. “You go home, Gilmont – you’ve done more than your share. No, I insist,” he appends, as Gus prepares to object. “And don’t return until you receive an owl from me, possibly tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very good, sir,” Gus reluctantly agrees. “Goodnight.”

“’Night, Gilmont. Oh, Blaise – Hermione sent me a message, all the elves are staying the night at their place, we’re invited for brunch at eleven. You should come along, too,” Harry turns to Gus.

“Oh, no – that wouldn’t be appropriate, sir. And I have – prior commitments. Thank you.” Gus wonders idly why Blaise has stiffened at her words, his full-lipped mouth flattening. Nodding, she walks through the door Zabini is already holding open.

He falls into step beside her, silently keeping pace. The warmth of his body radiates to her, despite the respectable distance he is maintaining.

“You don’t have to walk me out, Zabini – I’m an _Auror_ , in case that fact has somehow eluded your notice,” Gus points out, battling a yawn. 

Blaise grins unrepentantly. “Who says you’re not seeing _me_ safely off the premises? I’ve had a trying night, you know,” he huffs, keeping his handsome face perfectly blank. “It’s about time the Ministry gave appropriate security detail to one of its most valued and productive assets,” he sniffs, humour infusing his deliberately pompous, deep tones.

_His ego’s bigger than Jupiter – but I like that he can laugh at himself,_ Gus reflects, before she ruthlessly quells that admiring train of thought. They’ve reached the elevators; she half-turns to reply.

“On that – you didn’t have to dog my footsteps all night, Zabini,” Gus makes the tactical error of looking up at him. His comely jet eyes hold her own captive as the expression within shifts from laughing to intense.

“I wanted to help – and I wanted to spend more time with you,” Blaise softly admits. “Please – I’m not saying this with any self-serving intent – I really enjoy being around you, Gu– Auror Gilmont.” He carefully paces one step closer; Gus has to sink her hands into her pockets to stifle the urge to yank him as close as possible. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

“I know that I don’t really know you – and I realize that you think me a rich, egotistical, spoiled womanizer – but I just want to say… I think you’re amazing.” Blaise shrugs nervously.

“You’re smart, and strong, and fierce – the way you protected Wirey, the night that Theo was hauled in – and when you Stunned Bones – I mean, when your wand misfired,” he hastily amends, rubbing at the back of his muscular neck.

“It was crass of me, trying to ask you out like I did – you were right about that – I’d kind of forgotten all about Daphne – shit, that doesn’t paint me in a good light…” Blaise ruefully laughs.

“I promise, I’m not going to come onto you again… I just want you to know – because I get the distinct impression you don’t hear it anywhere near often enough – you’re beautiful, inside and out, Auror Gilmont. Thanks for putting up with me – and I can never thank you enough for helping to save my friends.” His mien is both solemn and earnest, his beautiful, thickly-lashed eyes never leaving her face.

_Well, fu– fudge,_ Gus reigns in her inner swear bear as she remembers she is trying to set a good example for Tavi. _Imagine the damage Zabini could do if he were actually trying to seduce me. How am I supposed to respond to this genuine… niceness?_

“Gus – you may as well call me Gus,” she blurts out, cheeks heating. “And– um– thanks – for the– for the scallops, they were yummy– I gotta– I gotta go– ” she whirls, pulling out her hands from her pockets as she jumps in an elevator and presses the Atrium button. The noise of the gate masks the sound of her Auror badge falling from her pocket to the carpeted floor just outside the lift.

“Gus– wait– ” Blaise stoops, but the elevator whisks her away before he can complete his sentence. Once she is certain she is out of view, Gus lets a thrilled, flattered smile suffuse her features, before her stern, pragmatic side takes over.

_Settle down – he’s a practised flirt, and you’ve zero experience with men – literally. Just because he’s funny, and unexpectedly sweet, and shockingly sexy – that’s no reason to act the fool in his presence. You’ve no time for any trifling dalliances, even if he did change his mind and actively pursue you._ Gus nods to herself decisively.

_I probably just need a decent night’s rest – and some perspective._

_I don’t need to think about a certain tall, winsome wizard with a smile that could melt butter – and a ‘huge’, custom-made bed. I certainly shouldn’t contemplate him sleeping in it… shirtless… possibly sans pants…_

_Nope. That would not help… at all._

* * *

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

“There he is!” Ginny points to a table beside the podium, in the half-occupied ballroom; Viktor keeps his large hand at her waist as she bustles over to where her brother is deep in conversation with a few Hogwarts wizards.

_I know their faces, but do not recall their names… the shorter one, he is called something like… Shaming?_ Viktor concentrates hard. _Ah – the dark-haired young man – Neville Strongbottom, I think._ _Da._

He doesn’t get a chance at proper introduction, as Ginny launches herself at her brother; she fiercely punches Ron in the shoulder, sending him banging back against his chair.

“Hey – watch it, Gin! If that was meant to be playful – well, you don’t know your own strength,” Ron grouches.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley – you are an utter arse, and I am ashamed to share your bloodline,” Ginny snarls, prodding at the spot she recently thumped. “Do you have any idea what your jealous, spiteful actions set in motion tonight? Of how many people you could have harmed – and _did_ injure – because you have no impulse control, and lack any semblance of maturity? Huh? Do you?!” she drills two fingers into his bicep, ignoring his pained wince.

“Bloody hell, Gin – what’s got into you?” Ron whinges, ducking and writhing to evade her furious jabs. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself – have a care.” He gestures to the curious eyes directed at them.

_Ah – you stupid man. Ginny-evra is going to roast you like a Chinese Fireball presented with a fattened pig._ Viktor grimaces, his own easy-going temper at breaking point as he considers what could have happened to his friends.

“A spectacle? A _spectacle_? YOU WANT TO AVOID PUTTING ON A SHOW, DO YOU?!?” Ginny’s enraged voice could carry to the next floor, such is her loud ire. Ron finally seems to realize he is in trouble, as he stumbles upright, chair legs screeching on the wooden floor.

“Ginny – settle down – you’re overreacting– ”

“Am I, Ron?” Ginny’s whisper-soft response is deadlier than her holler. Her brown eyes blaze as she backs up Ron against the podium.

_Ah – Shaming and Strongbottom are sensible to shuffle out of the line of fire,_ Viktor notes.

“Pansy bolted because you ‘outed’ her – mid-dance – to Harry – not that she has anything to be ashamed of, mind you. But you deliberately tried to hurt both of them, due to being consumed with bitterness and spite at the reality that Pansy preferred Harry to your sorry self,” Ginny growls. “Merlin, Ron – we’d literally just spoken about the need to grow up!”

“Look – I just thought Harry should know, alright– ” Ron continues to dig his grave deeper with every idiotic word spoken in his own defence.

“It’s not ‘alright’: it’s childish, and malicious, and do you know what happened? Cormac McLaggen snatched Pansy at the Departure Floos, held a knife to her throat, Petrified her, used her as a bargaining chip to coerce Hermione to sacrifice herself, then took them both back to his sick sex dungeon, where he planned to repeatedly rape and torture them and use them as ‘breed slaves’, Ron.” Ginny brushes away an angry tear as she reveals the extent of the night’s drama.

Horrified gasps sound from the remaining men at the table.

“Are they alright? Pansy and Hermione?” Neville implores. The other man – _Seamus, not ‘Shaming’, I vas close_ – blanches, highlighting his freckles.

“Yes – they weren’t seriously harmed, Neville.” Ginny pats his arm reassuringly. “Hermione was able to overcome the effects of Cormac’s drugging potion, thanks to her and Draco’s soul-bonded magical cores – and then she headbutted him and they took him down.” 

“Soul-bonded magic? But me mam always told us that’s naught but a myth,” an astonished Seamus wonders, while Neville exhales shakily at the good news.

“Oh – maybe keep that bit quiet, please,” Ginny guiltily requests. “I don’t know if they want it made public… and you know what the press is like,” she glares about the room.

“Ginny… is that true? About– about Cormac kidnapping them a–and what he was– what he planned to do?” Ron is now paler than Seamus, his voice jagged.

“Are you finally starting to understand that your actions have consequences, Ron? Yeah, they were both in grave danger tonight – as an indirect result of you being a right shit. Are you happy now?” Ginny’s wrath softens to sorrow as she shakes her head at her brother.

“You can’t blame me– _oof_!”

Neville surprises everyone by plowing a fist into Ron’s stomach; the redhead staggers as Neville proceeds to push him onto the floor at the base of the stage.

_Damn, I vanted to deliver that blow._ Viktor pouts.

Neville crouches beside a winded Ron, shielding him from public view.

“Shut your mouth, Ronald. I heard what you did – and I do blame you. You’re incredibly lucky Hermione and Pansy are OK, because I would have never forgiven you if the worst had happened.” Neville slowly brings up his cramped fist, resting it on Ron’s sternum with dangerous precision.

“And if I ever hear of you disrespecting another woman again – I’ll beat the living shit out of you, understand?”. He doesn’t wait for Ron’s tiny head jerk before standing up. “I’m going home – nice to see you again, Ginny. Viktor. Hope we can catch up soon… under better circumstances.” He shoots a last disgusted look at Ron, before stalking away.

“I vill also be beating out the shit from you, Ronald Veasley,” Viktor menaces. “Living or dead.”

Ginny leans in. “I’m leaving with Viktor – do you want to try to ‘slut-shame’ me, too? No? I’d appreciate if you’d let Mum know that I’m safe, please. I’ll be home tomorrow.” She hesitates.

“Ron – you’re my brother, and I’ll always love you – but I really don’t like you at all right now… and I reckon most people feel the same way. I hope this is your true rock bottom, I really do.’

“Because sooner rather than later, you’re going to look around, and realize that you’re alone. And it’s entirely your own fault.”

Ron doesn’t speak a word; he remains shellshocked, arms huddled around his middle. Ginny smooths a damp copper strand from his forehead. “Bye, Ron.”

Viktor gladly wraps his arm around Ginny as she cuddles into his side; he revels in the silky softness of her long auburn tresses, caressing gently. His big heart thuds crazily after hearing she will indeed be spending the night with him. _I had hoped… but given the trials of the evening, I did not expect…_

“Viktor? Is that alright with you?” Ginny pooches out her lower lip worriedly as they walk away from her decimated brother. Seamus tips his chin by way of greeting; Viktor returns the gesture.

“Of course, Ginny-evra – I am very lucky wizard – but of course, I do not presume– ”

The passionate kiss Ginny plants on his lips cuts off his sombre assurance. “Well, I intend to presume your brains out,” she grins. “Assuming that suits your plans, of course.”

Viktor’s huge grin answers for him. He wraps his brawny arms around her, returning her kiss with interest and nuzzling at her neck; Ginny shivers in delight, sweeping down her hands from his broad back to boldly squeeze his buttocks.

“Ginny-evra – ve haff not yet left the ballroom!” he contends, feigning outrage.

“Do it again?” he winks.

They look at each other, chuckling as they hurry toward the exit, hands held and swinging together.

* * *

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

“Thank you, Macdolas. Do me a favour, if you would: toss a throw rug or blanket over Gelsy and Wirey, before you and Ruibby retire for the evening, please? They’re bound to feel cold eventually; and seeing that hairy little grot’s bare chest once was more than enough,” Draco advises Mac, after taking custody of the tea cups, plate of biscuits and medicine, and a glass of tap water.

“Macdolas already covers the Wirey and Signorina Gelsomina in blankets, Master Malfoy. And places the Wirey’s apparel by the side of the beanbag – Macdolas does not care for the sight either,” he snorts witheringly.

“Excellent. Goodnight, Macdolas.” Draco securely closes their bedroom door; Hermione lazily tilts her head against the lip of the big claw foot tub, as he brings in the refreshments to the ensuite bathroom. 

“Have they settled down, do you think?” she enquires, as Draco sets the crockery and tumbler to magically hover beside the bath. Passing her two tablets of ibuprofen, he watches approvingly as Hermione ingests and washes them down with water.

Efficiently stripping off his suit and shirt, Draco bundles all the garments onto the vanity. Hermione watches avidly, her waning energy receiving a boost from the sight of all that creamy, muscled skin. He is (as ever) supremely unselfconscious in his nudity, pacing about the bathroom with an economy of movement and unstudied grace.

“Who, Lilliputian Romeo and Juliet? I truly hope so, Granger.” Draco seems unconscious of her lascivious regard as he lobs his footwear near the sink. “I should have specified ‘no sugar’ before we left for the Gala – the little devils took full advantage of our absence to run amok.”

Hermione draws up her legs in the hot, perfumed water, expecting Draco to join her; instead, he kneels on the side opposite the floating tea and biscuits.

“Have a sip, and a chocolate-dipped shortbread, _ma petite_ ,” he encourages, wetting her special soap and diligently beginning to wash her feet. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Won’t you join me? In the bath proper, please,” Hermione purses her mouth into a beseeching little moue, pouting properly when he merely smiles and continues lathering her calves.

“I want to be a solicitous, caring boyfriend – and take proper care of my sore, tired, brave little witch,” he explains. “And don’t give me those bedroom eyes, sweetheart… you’ve been running on fumes for the last hour, and you need to relax and regenerate.”

_I won’t admit that he’s right… but I **am** starting to flag. _Hermione sighs, reaching a hand to collect and sip at her chamomile tea. She dips a biscuit into the hot beverage, nibbling contentedly. Draco moves his attentions to her thighs, assiduously soaping her stomach and paying particular attention to her breasts, his eyes unblinking.

“You’re very thorough, Draco,” Hermione murmurs, as he makes yet another swirling pass around her nipples. _He never fails to arouse me, though I’m too tired to do anything about it,_ she sighs to herself.

“Attention to detail – it separates the good from the great,” he finally moves to her shoulders, pausing as Hermione finishes her tea and biscuit and sets the thin cup back on its saucer. She sinks a little lower in the steaming water, closing her eyes in bliss as Draco switches to soaping a soft washer and tenderly wiping her face and neck clean of sweat (she’d earlier removed her makeup at the vanity).

Disjointed images from the fraught experience in McLaggen’s foul dungeon penetrate her relaxed fogginess; Hermione hunches forward as she remembers the maleficent glint in Cormac’s eye… the glee on his face as the drug he’d administered had dulled her physical reactivity. Her breathing shortens into frightened pants.

Draco abandons the soap and washer instantly, clambering into the bath to kneel before her. He gathers her quivering form into his arms, crooning soothingly.

“It’s OK, Hermione… my fearless, daring little lion - _ma pauvre petite_ , I have you, you’re safe… let it out, darling.” She sobs into his neck, trusting her vulnerability to her caring lover without hesitation.

“Draco, he– he liked hurting us– he got off on putting that knife to Pansy’s neck, and bragging about the sadistic plans he had for us both… he wanted to dominate us, to– to–” She is unable to finish.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you endured that… you’re safe, you’re safe,” Draco repeats the phrase, rocking her gently. “I’m here, I’ll always be here for you, my love.”

Slumped against him, Hermione weeps piteously, her cries weakening to snuffles and hiccoughs after an indeterminate period of time has elapsed. Draco carries on stroking her back and rubbing her arms, eventually moving to sit beside her. Hermione doesn’t resist as he presses her against his chest; she curls around him gratefully.

“I’m sorry, Draco… I thought I was holding it together so well…”

“ _Mon amour_ : what goes up, must come down… did you not help me, when I crumbled at the bottom of the staircase, hmmm?” Draco wrings out the washer with one hand, dabbing it carefully to her tear-damp face. His actions still suddenly.

“Sweetheart – your cheek is swollen, and red – I thought it was agitation – what happened?” His question is couched in soft tones, but Hermione hears the steel beneath.

“Cormac slapped me – I was thinking about our final telepathic conversation, in the Atrium – and he decided I wasn’t paying him enough attention,” she states, as Draco growls like a caged tiger.

“I wish the gold headband had chopped off his filthy hand – I should have grabbed that bloody broadsword Macdolas dragged out and cut off his fucking head myself,” he mutters blackly.

“It might make you feel better to know that I Accio’ed Cormac’s detached fingertip beneath the bed,” Hermione reveals. “I don’t know if they can regrow it at Azkaban – or if they’ll bother – but we hurt him, Draco… we hurt him badly.” The thought considerably cheers her; she lifts her aching head to gaze tremulously at her beloved wizard.

“Is it wrong that I thought about killing him, Draco? That I seriously considered drawing on our magic and simply blasting him to smithereens?” Hermione confesses. “I could have done it, too; but in the end, I didn’t want to have that… _stain_ , on my soul. I want him to wither and die a little bit every day, in that tiny, cold cell, instead.”

“Of course it isn’t wrong: you are my precious angel, but you’re human enough to want revenge, Hermione.” Draco recommences bathing her face with the washer, taking extra care with her puffy cheek. “I’ll Episkey your cheek, once we’re out of the bath.”

He delicately kisses the lightly-throbbing skin. “You’re right, sweetheart – it will be a far greater punishment for McLaggen’s sins – and Flint’s – to have them suffer in prison. We’ll make sure they never see the light of day again; and once their trials are complete, we will put them from our minds and enjoy our lives… free of their malignant shadows,” he promises.

“Thank you, Draco… for everything. For looking after me, especially… you are a dream come true, you know.” Hermione smiles lovingly at him.

“Eh – that’s my line, as I recall? You are a shameless thief, but I forgive you.” His smile fades as he shyly asks, “Am I really the– the boyfriend you wish for? The man that you– need, and want, in your life? I sometimes worry that I may have… overly accelerated our relationship. You can always ask me to slow down, or step back – I shan’t take offence.” Draco swallows uneasily.

“Pfft – you’d be devastated if I told you to take a step back, and you know it,” Hermione confidently predicts. “I’m wholly delighted with where we are, in our relationship. We do need to discuss and decide on our upcoming careers, and living situations, though…?” she refers to her pending professorship, and Draco’s possible art teaching career at Hogwarts.

“Mmmm, yes – I’ll ask Minerva for an appointment,” Draco muses, resting his chin on her curly, pinned-up mop. “Would you please accompany me, Granger? I’d like to make decisions for our future together.”

“Of course – and I won’t make that mistake again, Draco,” Hermione vows. “I was completely fed up with my Ministry role, the day I definitively decided to quit – but I apologize for not running it by you first.”

“Oh, that’s fine; I’ve been subtly pushing you to resign since the first night I made you dinner here, remember? I’ll support any career you choose, _ma petite_ … well, with the exception of Muggle dentistry,” he divulges. “That awful, macabre musical your father adores has put me off the profession for good, I’m afraid.”

“Crap! Mum and Dad – they’ll be frantic if they read about our ordeal in the Prophet tomorrow!” Hermione frets. “Is it too late to send a text?” she desperately ponders.

“Darling – it’s just gone one AM. Your parents will think it’s a dire emergency and panic terribly, if you disturb them this late. I’ll set an alarm for the morning, and Floo-call your mother, how does that sound?” Draco compromises.

“You’d do that? But aren’t you exhausted, too?” Hermione drowsily asks.

“You come first – and that includes putting your mind at rest about your family,” he answers firmly. “Now, let’s go to bed, and snuggle like bunnies, and sleep the slumber of the righteous, _ma chérie_.” Draco sits upright, propping Hermione’s enervated body against the back of the bathtub before climbing out and quickly wrapping a navy towel around his waist. He grabs another for Hermione, slinging it over his shoulder before plucking her easily from the cooling water.

Hermione stands passively as Draco pats her dry. He retrieves his wand from his robes halfway through the process, gently pointing it to her bruised cheekbone and healing the contusion.

_I’m a bit of a mess emotionally, right now… but even though this roofie drama has been perfectly horrid, and terrifying, and made me sick to my stomach… I wouldn’t ever go back in time to erase what’s happened,_ Hermione resolves.

_Being with Draco makes up for all of it… I never knew my heart could be this full, and yet keep on expanding… he’s **my** miracle. _

_And to think… he was right under my nose all throughout our schooling,_ she marvels. _The sly little Slytherin!_

“Why are you looking at me like that, Hermione?” Draco cocks his fair head to the side, straightening up after completing his drying ritual.

“Oh, nothing really… I was just thinking of how much I love you… and how every day, I love you a little more – as crazy as that sounds,” Hermione replies, wrapping her arms around his damp neck.

“I love you the most,” Draco scoops her into his arms without further delay. “I always will.”

Hermione lets him have the last word, happily submitting to being tucked into bed and spooned from behind. She basks in her joy for as long as she can, before tumbling into sleep.

Her ultimate thought makes her smile against her pillow.

_I might just develop an Arithmancy equation for determining who loves whom more… and prove my silly wizard does not – in fact – love me more than I love him..._

_Impossible._


	64. Custody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to @Alpr15.  
> Thank you very much for your kind reviews, loyal support, and for asking after my welfare, Anna.  
> And for your sweet little emojis, I adore them ✨✨✨.
> 
> This chapter is mostly Blaise & Gussie, with a little Draco & Hermione in the final scene. The next chapter will be the brunch (complete with hung-over elves, a kitten, and their parents... so it's bound to be chaotic, but hopefully fun.)
> 
> Thanks very much for still reading this, guys. I hope you're safe and well.  
> 💙 VJ

****Trigger warning: angst & reference to character deaths****

****

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

Blaise double-checks the apartment number against the one he’s had memorized for the last four days. His fingers rub at the cool steel of the badge nestled in his palm, as he inhales deeply to settle his uncustomary nerves.

_I’m not being a stalker; everyone knows that misplacing your Auror identification is a huge no-no. I’m simply being a good friend. I’ll just hand over her badge and leave… no big deal._

_Right. No big deal._ Blaise quietly knocks twice on the scarred door of the council flat, conscious of the fact it’s now past midnight. His eyes travel down the narrow corridor, marvelling at how many separate apartments seem to be crammed onto the one floor. The Slytherin dungeons were the very height of elitist ‘communal living’, compared to this crowded environment.

He cocks his head as voices sound from behind the shoddy (yet scrupulously clean) door.

“I’ll get it! I told you Mrs Green would find my triceratops!” a high, clear, young female voice announces.

 _Have I knocked on the wrong door?_ Blaise scans the number again, just as the entryway swings open. He shares a glance of mutual befuddlement and curiosity with a small blonde girl wearing thick-lensed spectacles.

“Tavi! How many times have I told you, you don’t answer the door until you’re certain who is on the other side, and even then– ” Gus’s exasperated admonishment breaks off as she stares incredulously at Blaise.

“Zabini?! What on earth are you doing here?” She firmly but gently pulls the little girl behind her. “Tavi, go to your room, please.”

“But I want to know who this man is,” Tavi argues, poking her head around Gus’s scarlet Auror robes. “He’s a wizard, right? He’s dressed like one.”

Blaise silently opens his palm as Gus continues to glower at him, revealing the badge she’d dropped as she’d jumped into the elevator a short fifteen minutes ago.

“I thought you’d prefer me to hand this back to you directly, Gus. It must have fallen from your pocket as you were leaving,” he replies.

Gus looks horrified as she realizes the trouble she would have been in, had someone else found her Auror badge and reported its absence. “ _Oh, sh–_ shiver me timbers!,” she hastily adjusts her profanity, swiftly plucking the shiny metallic star from Blaise’s outstretched hand.

Tavi smugly clicks her tongue. “I know you were going to say ‘s-h-i-t’, Gus – unless you’re suffering from a weird pirate curse,” she snickers. “Are you a friend of Gus’s?” she addresses Blaise directly. There is a faint hitch to her bright, inquisitive speech.

“I’d like to be,” Blaise smiles down at the child. The familial resemblance between the two females is obvious; they share the same shade of dirty-blond hair, topaz eyes, and stubborn mouths. _But surely, she can’t be Gussie’s… **child**? _He rapidly assesses the age of the girl: she must be at least seven or eight years old. For the first time, he notices the black-strapped elastic and moulded plastic orthotic braces splinting the back of her spindly, jeans-clad legs.

He looks back at Gus; she is regarding him with a narrowed, shrewd expression. Keeping her hands on the little girl’s shoulders as she stands in front of her, she clips, “Tavi, I’d like you to meet Mr Zabini – he’s a Very Important Person in the Ministry of Magic… or so I’m told. Blaise, this is Tavi… my little sister.” Gus sweeps back Tavi’s thin fringe affectionately, even as the child bristles in aggravation.

“I’m not ‘little’ – and my full name is Miss Octavia Felice Gilmont. How do you do, Mr Blaise Zabini?” She holds up a dainty little hand; Blaise carefully shakes it, smiling into her intelligent eyes.

“Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Gilmont. Do call me Blaise – and I’m only a Mildly Useful Person at the Ministry, most days. Your sister does far more important work,” he acknowledges, grinning widely as Gus harrumphs with light scorn.

“You’d better come in,” Gus grudgingly invites. “I was about to make us a cup of cocoa; would you like one?” She throws the offer over her shoulder, steering Tavi ahead of her with a firm hand. “Close the door behind you, please.”

Blaise feels like a bull in a china shop as he follows the sisters down the skinny hallway. It is but a matter of a few steps before they enter the lounge/dining/kitchen. The entire apartment could likely fit in his master bathroom; the thought doesn’t sit easily with him.

Despite its limited space, the apartment is more welcoming than his own grand pile, he notes. The living space consists of a sagging, brown floral two seater couch and an old armchair, facing a small television set situated on top of a basic bookcase. Books and toys bulge from the shelves, and a wicker basket (filled with more toys) groans at the seams in the corner. A lidded ottoman sits before the couch, serving as a coffee table. To the right is a miniscule kitchen, with a short breakfast bar demarcating the boundary between the two rooms. Blaise assumes that the two closed doors they’d passed on their journey down the short hallway must be a bedroom and bathroom.

The furniture is old and tired, but Gus has beautified it with pretty quilts and squashy cushions. Laminated posters of famous artworks decorate the dull-coloured walls; Blaise recognizes Vermeer’s ‘The Music Lesson’, and ‘The Grand Canal of Venice’ by Manet.

He hovers awkwardly until Gus points to the small fold-out sofa.

“Have a seat, Zabini. Tavi – I’ll bring you your cuppa in bed, lovey,” Gus urges.

Tavi wilfully parks herself on the small armchair instead, flapping her hand dismissively. “Gus, you’ve always told me it’s rude to not entertain your guests; I don’t want Mr Blaise to get bored,” she smirks. “I slept for ages while you were at the Gala, just ask Mrs Green if you don’t believe me.”

Rolling her eyes and muttering something cranky beneath her breath, Gus sets about preparing a pan of milk, pulling out the hot chocolate ingredients from their tiny kitchen.

Blaise seats himself on the well-worn couch, feeling as though he’s being grilled for a job interview as Tavi leans forward; her fawn brown eyes glint with mischievous intelligence. She drops her voice, the clatter of the pan and crockery masking her interrogation from Gus.

“Do you have romantic designs on Gus, Mr Blaise? She needs a nice, strong, reliable boyfriend – not a nasty, selfish one,” Tavi declares, peering critically at him.

“I– um– I’m generally considered to be a nice guy?” Blaise offers weakly, wondering if the kid is enjoying the fact he is blushing furiously. “Gussie– Gus told me she’s not interested in dating me, Miss Octavia.”

Tavi blows a raspberry. “Fffffft – Gus tells everyone that. She thinks I require more parenting than I really do, you know,” she pronounces authoritatively. “I love her, but she needs to get a life – even Mrs Green says so.”

“Mrs Green?” Blaise echoes, hoping to change the subject and perhaps shift the girl’s oddly wise eyes off his visage. “Is she your nanny? Governess?” he hedges, feeling slighted as Tavi roars with laughter, clapping her delicate hands onto her knees as her entire slender form vibrates with mirth.

“What’s so funny?” Gus calls. “You’re not harassing Mr Zabini, are you, Tavi?” she warns, momentarily ceasing stirring the heating milk.

“He asked if– if Mrs Green was my n–nanny! Or my governess!” Tavi howls. Blaise is aggrieved when Gussie also starts to snigger.

 _It’s a perfectly valid question,_ he crossly assures himself. _It’s not **that** funny._

“Remind me to let Mrs Green know of her elevation in status tomorrow, Tavi,” Gus cackles. “Don’t make fun: Mr Zabini is not used to mixing with humble commoners, such as we are,” she drawls.

“No need to pout, Blaise: Mrs Green is our dear widowed neighbour – she minds Tavi when I’m at work. We’d be lost without her, isn’t that right, Kiddo?”.

“Gus! Don’t call me that – I’m almost _eleven_ ,” Tavi hisses, looking thoroughly scandalized at the term of endearment.

“Eleven?” Blaise parrots, trying to mask his shock at the girl’s true age. _She looks so…_ little _… though she talks and acts as though she’s forty going on eighty,_ he smiles to himself.

“Practically grown up – you’d better get a job and find your own place, huh?” Gus teases, before turning her attention to pouring the warmed milk into three mismatched, well-loved mugs.

“As if,” Tavi scoffs. “You’ll miss me like crazy when I leave for Hogwarts, Gus Gus.” Swinging her head back to Blaise, Tavi misses the tense, pensive look that crosses her sister’s face.

 _Something worrisome lurks behind that expression_ , Blaise muses.

He focuses on the little girl as she importantly asks, “Did you go to Hogwarts, Mr Blaise? Is it as wonderful and exciting as Gus says it is? Which house were you Sorted into? Can you really ask the Hat to be put in the one you prefer? What if it disagrees? Where do the house elves live? Did you ever do anything _really_ naughty there?”. Tavi props her chin on her hands, staring at him intently as she eagerly awaits his answers.

“Tavi! That’s impolite – feel free to tell her to mind her own beeswax, Blaise,” Gus huffs, bringing over their cocoas. She hands Blaise a mug illustrated with a red-haired mermaid wearing a purple shell bra. Tavi is given the cup featuring a sharp-toothed reptilian monster; Gus’s own mug sports the Ravenclaw logo. “Don’t burn your tongue, Zabini – you’ll need it to answer Tavi’s endless curiosity,” she teases.

Wedging his big body as far into the corner as he can to make room, Blaise is disappointed when Gus instead sits on the far arm of the couch to sip at her sweet beverage.

“Thank you, Gus – it smells delicious.” Blaise takes a quick gulp and scalds his mouth. “ _Yargh!_ ”

Tavi remonstrates, “You didn’t blow on it, Mr Blaise.” She puffs carefully concentrated little breaths over the surface of her own drink, by way of demonstration.

“Good advice, Miss Octavia,” Blaise wryly accedes. He balances the mug on his thigh for the time being.

“Now, as to your inquisition: I did attend Hogwarts; it is probably much more exciting and wondrous than your sister admitted (she tends to err on the side of caution, have you noticed?); I’m a proud Slytherin; you _can_ ask the Hat to put you in the House of your choosing; to the best of my knowledge, it will respect your decision; the house elves live on their own floor, just below the dungeons; and you’ll have to wait until you’re a little older before I tell you of my naughtiest deed,” he laughs.

“You’re a Snake!” Tavi exclaims. “Gus says I’m cunning enough to be Sorted into Slytherin; but I want to be a Gryffindor… I’m _going_ to be a Gryffindor,” she affirms, with feeling. “Do you have a house elf, Mr Blaise? I’d love to meet one, but Gus says they’re only affordable for the filthy rich,” she sighs, before enthusiastically slurping at her drink.

“I do – her name is Gelsy, Gelsomina. She’s Italian, and very smart and talented.” Blaise sips appreciatively at his hot drink. He flicks a sly glance at Gus, who is brooding into her own mug.

“You know, Miss Octavia… I could introduce you to her tomorrow, if you’d like to meet her? Plus another four elves… we’re all going to a brunch in St John’s Wood. Harry Potter will be there… and Hermione Granger: perhaps you’ve heard of her?” he innocently asks, as Gus’s head whips up to glare daggers at him.

“’The Brightest Witch AND the Real Harry Potter AND house elves?!?” Tavi’s shriek of pure delight makes him wince a little.

“You bet I would!!”. She bounces on the edge of her chair; the remaining skerrick of cocoa sloshes dangerously. “Gus, can we go? Please? I’ve already done all my homework for the weekend… and you promised we could have a fun outing… pleaaaase?” she wheedles excitedly.

“I meant a picnic in the park, or a ride on the Underground… not a crowded brunch with people we don’t know,” Gus grumbles. “I already told Auror Potter we wouldn’t be attending, Tavi.”

The little girl’s face crumples; Blaise isn’t sure how much of her reaction is genuine and which percentage is emphasized for dramatic effect; but he awards points for the undeniably heart-tugging result. Her lower lip wobbles and real tears spring from Tavi’s amber eyes. She hides her sad face by holding up the almost-empty mug, dropping her glistening eyelashes onto her soft cheeks.

“You’re a sneaky git, Zabini,” Gus cavils in a low aside, before bowing to the inevitable.

“Alright, Meryl Streep – can the ham and finish your cocoa, we’ll go to the ruddy brunch, OK? But only because I did promise you an outing of your choice, understand? I won’t be swayed by emotional blackmail, Tavi,” she sternly advises.

“Thank you, Gus Gus! I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise,” Tavi squeals, almost clobbering Gus in the head with the swinging mug as she clumsily stands and rushes to hug her sibling. Blaise plucks it from her hand before it smashes.

Gus returns the embrace, running her hand lovingly over the girl’s dark blonde bobbed hair. “You’re my favourite sister, you know that, Kiddo?”.

“I’m your only sister, Gus – you have to say that,” Tavi chides, winking at Blaise.

“Off to bed with you, Missy; go brush your teeth and change into your PJs, I’ll come tuck you in as soon as I’ve seen out Mr Zabini,” Gus informs.

“Goodnight, Mr Blaise – and thank you very much for the invitation,” Tavi states, beaming at him as though he’d just let her loose in a well-stocked toy store with an unlimited budget. _Cute as a button._

“Goodnight – and you’re very welcome, Miss Octavia. I’ll come by in the morning to escort you both; shall we say, quarter to eleven?” he turns to Gus, who nods curtly. Tavi untangles from her sister and skips away; her gait is a little unsteady.

Gus waits until the bathroom door has closed behind the child before she begins to speak. Her voice is monotonal, pitched slightly above a whisper.

“Tavi was born prematurely; the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, and she suffered oxygen deprivation,” she abruptly explains. “She has a mild form of cerebral palsy, which affects her speech, muscle tonality, hand-eye co-ordination, and vision. You probably noticed the orthotics she’s wearing?”.

“Yes.” Blaise opens and closes his mouth, finally deciding to stay silent and listen.

“My parents were murdered by Death Eaters, a few days before the Battle of Hogwarts,” Gus continues. She is gripping her mug tightly, staring unblinkingly at the floor. “They were both Muggles, and a corrupt Ministry worker noticed the ‘anomaly’ when they were poring over Hogwarts admission records, you see. Mum and Dad had pulled me out of Hogwarts weeks earlier; they were preparing for us all to flee abroad when the Death Eaters paid a visit in the dead of night.’

“I shared a room with Tavi; I heard them smashing through the windows on the other side of the house. I grabbed my wand, and I was about to rush in when I heard my Mum screaming at me to take Tavi and run. Two flashes of green light, and they were dead. Just like that,” Gus tells him bleakly.

“I grabbed Tavi and Disapparated to the first place I thought of – our local library. I kept Disapparating to various random locations – hoping to throw them off the scent – until we made it to London. I Transfigured our clothing, and we spent the next few days on the run, hiding wherever we could.”

“Wait – you Disapparated – but you were only, what, sixteen?” Blaise can’t help but interrupt.

“Fifteen. I’d been secretly studying and practising Apparation ever since I’d returned for Fifth Year, in the Room of Requirement. I had a feeling – a hunch, I get a few of those, and so far they’ve not led me astray – that I needed to be as prepared as possible, for the coming storm. Admittedly, I’d only successfully Apparated from one side of the Room to the other – but I had no other choice. I was terrified I was going to Splinch my baby sister,” she admits, her face blanching. “And of course, I still had The Trace – we had quite a few sticky moments before Voldemort was defeated and things started to return to normal,” she shrugs.

Blaise’s heart aches at the thought of the two young orphans, on the run from evil Death Eaters and Snatchers, terrified and alone. _Forget ‘amazing’ – this witch is an unequivocal legend,_ he fervently decides.

“What happened then?” he hoarsely asks. “Did you have family you could go to?”.

“I have an auntie in Canada, whom we’ve never met. I ended up fudging some ID documents to accelerate my age, and applied to be Tavi’s official guardian. We waited six months for a council flat – Mum and Dad weren’t well off, and we’d always lived in rentals. Their murderers burned down the little house we’d been staying in, before they left.” Gus smiles joylessly. “We turned up here with a small bag of donated clothes, books and toys. Scrounged the unique décor from throw-outs and Oxfam.’

“Moved in here, met Mrs Green – she’s been an utter godsend and a lifesaver – her late husband Roger was a wizard, she recognized our magic, even though we went to great pains to hide it – and she loves Tavi to bits. Treats her like a beloved granddaughter and refuses to take payment for looking after her when I’m at work. All our quilts are her handiwork, she’s forever giving us new ones.”

“You didn’t go back to Hogwarts? Sorry, stupid question,” Blaise corrects himself immediately.

“I couldn’t – there was no way I was giving up Tavi… I’m all she has left, Blaise.” Gus scrubs restlessly at her forehead before finishing her tragic history.

“I got a job working nights in a Muggle supermarket – stocking shelves – and studied for my external N.E.W.T.s during the day. Passed the Auror entrance exam, finished my training… and here we are.” Gus stands, reaching for the two empty mugs loosely clasped in Blaise’s hand. He rises, following her to the sink.

“Gus… what I said to you before, in the Ministry – well, I just want you to know that I am completely in awe of your strength, and your fierce devotion to your family,” Blaise breathes, gently wrapping his hand around hers in the lightest of holds. “Thank you – for sharing your story… for trusting me with it.”

Standing stock still, Gus emits a faint tremble at the touch of Blaise’s hand on her own. She pinches closed her eyes, tipping down her chin, shoulders slumping.

“Here’s the thing, Blaise – Tavi _is_ a witch… but her magic… it’s unpredictable. Sometimes it flows through her as swiftly as a country stream, but at other times… it’s like trying to turn on a rusted tap and only a thin dribble of dirty brown water comes out. The cerebral palsy– I’ve done everything I can to improve her physicality, but brain damage isn’t reversible, not even by magical means,” Gus babbles, her words thready and quick.

“I’m– I’m bloody terrified that she’s not going to receive her Hogwarts letter, because of it – and she will be absolutely devastated. It’s all she thinks and talks about – well, other than books, dinosaurs, science experiments, Lego, house elves, and Barbies,” her chuckle turns to a choked-off sob.

“I don’t know what to do – should I prepare her for the worst, or just keep my fingers crossed? She gets so frustrated by her limitations sometimes– I can’t blame her for that, she’s incredibly smart and gifted, and I know she feels trapped and betrayed by her own body– I don’t know what to _do_ …” Gus wheezes.

 _Oh, Salazar’s stinky socks… my poor, stoic, stubbornly strong Gussie_ … Blaise’s generous heart constricts as he reflects on Gus’s suffering, and her selfless fortitude. _I can’t begin to imagine what’s she’s gone through – or the sacrifices she’s made. And she was just a kid, herself…_ his eyes grow damp.

Acting on instinct (and hoping he doesn’t get hexed for it), Blaise shuffles forward to carefully wrap his arms around the distressed young witch, gently guiding her chin to rest atop his shoulder. “Is this OK, Gussie?”. He is vastly relieved when she remains passive in his arms, giving a minute nod of assent.

“Hey – I understand your fears – you’ve been a single parent to Tavi for five years, and you’re doing a bloody marvellous job,” Blaise soothes, keeping his voice calm. “But you’re doing all this alone, apart from Mrs Green, yeah?”.

“Well, Kolt knows about Tavi – he’s a good friend to us – but he has his own family worries, and work is full-on for him, too,” Gus clarifies.

“Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall about your concerns?” Blaise enquires.

“No… I mean, she knows I have a little sister. It was cowardly of me, not to just bite the bullet and ask about Tavi… I didn’t want to be told that she couldn’t be accepted into school – and I figured that I had plenty of time to help train and control her magic.”

Gus speaks drearily. “Life got busy, you know? And then… I turned around the other day and it’s less than six months to Tavi’s birthday – she’ll be eleven on August 23rd…” She trails off, her words muffled against Blaise’s neck.

“Gus, being strong doesn’t mean doing everything yourself. You need to let people help you – and Tavi,” Blaise holds his breath, almost certain that Gus is not going to react happily to his unsolicited advice.

“It’s been me and Tavi against the world for so long… I’m not sure if I even know how to ask for help, much less accept it,” Gus mumbles. “I feel like I’ve failed her – I should have done more, in terms of helping her find ways to channel her magic– ”

“Hey, hey – none of that. Tavi’s not even supposed to use magic outside the home until she gets to Hogwarts… it’s a Catch-22, Gus,” Blaise points out. “Cut yourself some slack. Seriously.”

He is more disappointed that he cares to admit when she disengages from their careful hug. “I guess. Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all my crap on you – I bet you wish you’d just handed my badge back to Harry, huh? Thanks for bringing it over… how did you get my address, anyway?” Gus demands, brows knitting.

“I might have… uh, stumbled across it after Theo got hauled in,” Blaise prevaricates. “I apologize, I realize I overstepped.”

“I’ll forgive you this once, since you’ve done me a massive favour; losing your badge is an automatic written warning, and bloody embarrassing, to boot,” Gus yawns.

“I’d better get going – you’re exhausted, and you’ve still got to settle down one excited little moppet,” Blaise indicates to the closed doors.

“Yeah – thanks for conning us into the brunch, by the way,” Gus pretend-punches his arm, though her smile belies her aggression. “Reeled in my baby sis, didn’t you? Hook, line, and sinker.”

“You’re both going to have a great time, I promise,” Blaise avows. He looks about the room as a thought strikes. “Erm… you don’t have a Floo? Would it be alright if I Side-apparated you both to the Granger-Malfoy townhouse, tomorrow?”

“Sure. Nah, no fireplace, I’m afraid. Just a poky one-bedroom council flat – but we’re very grateful to have it, believe me. Beats the hell out of living in hostels and emergency accommodation.”

“You have to share the bedroom with Tavi?” Blaise wonders aloud.

“No, it’s her room. I sleep on the sofa, it folds out,” Gus elucidates, chortling at Blaise’s horrified expression. “Boy, you really aren’t used to poor people, are you? And we’re much luckier than most, trust me.”

Gus reaches for his hand, beginning to tow him down the hallway. The casual touch fires Blaise’s nervous system instantly; he has to stop himself from twining together their fingers in a possessive hold.

 _Easy, boy. She’s barely accepted you as her friend – don’t throw a spanner in the works by coming on strong._ He schools his face into tranquil amiability as Gus opens the door and nudges him outside, their bodies brushing in the tight hallway (though he makes a valiant effort to compress his bulk).

“G-Goodnight, Gus,” he stammers, still fighting the urge to press a kiss to her sensual mouth. He knots his hands into his robes to ensure they don’t reach out of their own accord.

“Goodnight, Blaise.” Gus gives him a funny little finger wave, her big cork-brown eyes blinking rapidly before she snicks shut the door.

He is left gazing dumbly at the closed portal, heart jumping about like a startled Puffskein.

Blaise doesn’t realize how widely he is smiling until he catches sight of his goofy reflection in a slow-moving passing car (once he’s exited the apartment block and is headed for the secure Apparation spot a few blocks away).

His confident steps slow as he briefly considers he is swimming in heretofore uncharted waters… and it’s getting a tad deep.

_Nah – I’m cool. I love helping my friends – everyone knows that._

_And Gussie is my friend. My friend… Gussie._

He whistles, pleased to have resolved any lingering doubts.

_Brunch is going to be **awesome**._

* * *

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

Slipping back into bed as quietly as he can, Draco gladly cuddles into his sleeping girlfriend; he stills as she somnolently mumbles, “Draco… did you talk to Mum?”

“I did – she was greatly relieved to hear from us, as they’d just read the Prophet headlines. She sends all her love, plus– ” Draco smooches Hermione’s cheek, and gently squeezes her drowsing form – “a kiss and a hug. Delivered.” 

“Also, your father even risked sticking his head in the Floo flames for a few moments. He relished the details of how you and Pansy brought down Cormac, though he was starting to spout Macdolas-like schemes of bloody vengeance before Jane talked him down,” Draco replies. “I invited them both to brunch – I hope you don’t mind, I thought you might like to see them in person, _ma petite_.”

Wiggling in his arms until they are lying face-to-face, Hermione opens her sleepy eyes, smiling tenderly into his. “Mind? You guessed right – thank you, _mon amour_. You’re a very thoughtful, generous, kind-hearted man, you know.” She nods decisively, as he shifts a little, shaking his head.

“No, you are,” she insists. “You’ve opened your home and your heart – not just to me, but to our friends and families. Thank you, Malfoy.”

Draco buries his face in her bountiful chestnut curls, needing a moment or twenty to compose himself after her sweet words. When he is able to speak around the emotional boulder lodged in his throat, he mutters, “You brought me out of my shell – you dragged me out of exile, Hermione. I know you don’t see it, but you’re the centre of our group… of our families. You bring so much light, and joy into the world… such goodness, and love.’

“Fuck, I sound like a proper mushy sap, don’t I? Don’t answer– I see you grinning,” he nips at her little ears, as she squeaks and giggles.

“You’re MY proper mushy sap,” Hermione firmly announces, aping his cut-glass accent. “Wanna fool around?”. She curves her arms around his neck, leering comically.

“Minx – I’d love to, but you’ve barely achieved five hours of rest, darling. And I’m still dog-tired myself,” Draco concedes.

“Oh – I also called Mother… she’s coming to brunch, too. Wants to tell you how proud she is of you, and assure herself of your good health.” Draco edits the part where Narcissa referred to Hermione as her ‘magnificent future daughter-in-law’ (though the memory makes him smile in both pride and exasperation).

“Excellent! We still need to plan Mac’s birthday bash – we’d best distract him at some point, so Narcissa and I can confer with Ruibby,” Hermione decrees.

“Lucius expressed his best wishes for your health, and has offered – of his own accord – to be reinterviewed by Harry, in regards to anything else he might recall about Walden McNair,” Draco divulges.

“He did? Go, Lucy!” Hermione says, with some astonishment. “That’s great news.”

“It is.” Draco snickers as he adds, “Wirey and Gelsy slept through all my calls; I shudder to think how much peach schnapps they each imbibed. There’s no doubt they’re alive, though – their combined snoring is horrific. I had to chase away Macdolas, he was prodding at Wirey with a wooden spoon when I first went downstairs. Claimed it was a ‘welfare check’… I think we need to set limits as to his television habits, Granger.’

“One last thing – Blaise owled us, he asked if he may bring Auror Gilmont – and her little sister – to brunch. She’s due to start at Hogwarts this year, and is mad for all things house elf, apparently. She wouldn’t be, if they ate _her_ special dinner mints,” Draco grouses.

“You said yes, right?” Hermione blithely ignores his carping about stolen sweets. “Ohmigod – Blaise is actually pursuing Gus – they’d make such a lovely couple– ” Draco can practically see the starry castles Hermione is merrily building in the air.

“Wait, wait– before you start planning their wedding, Blaise was adamant that Gus is coming as his _friend_ , Hermione. Refrain from pushing them together, please: Gus strikes me as extremely resistant to that kind of blatant machination, OK?”

All he gets by way of response is a non-committal “Mmmm.”

Draco tries again. “I can hear your canny brain scheming, _ma petite_ – truly, please don’t pressure them. Blaise mentioned that Gus only agreed because Tavi was so excited about mixing with wizardly folk; they come from a Muggle background, and have had a tough time of it – he didn’t say anything else, so I can’t be pumped for more information. Go back to sleep, please.”

“It’s not interfering if they are already attracted to each other, Draco,” Hermione argues. “It’s just… ‘creating opportunities for relationship growth and encouragement’, and that’s a supportive role to take, for our friends.” She doesn’t bother to mask her self-satisfaction at her wily approach.

“I still wonder that you weren’t Sorted into Slytherin. Sleep, sweetheart. You can conspire and connive later – Merlin knows, my mother thrives on it.” He kisses the tip of her nose, moving slowly onto her forehead, brows, and eyelids, as she hums softly and nestles back onto the pillow.

“I’m going to wake up before brunch… then look out… I’m going to have my wicked way with you, Draco,” Hermione avers. “It’s going… to be… epic…” the last word fades to a snore.

 _Tired little goose._ Draco gathers her against his chest, fussing at the bedcovers until he is satisfied Hermione is toasty warm. He savours the pervasive feeling of relieved, relaxed contentment.

_We’re finally free of the dark shadows that brought her to my doorstep… and no one will ever hurt my Hermione again, not while there is breath in my lungs and blood in my veins._

Draco unconsciously tightens his grip on his slumbering paramour, as their new reality sinks in.

_Free to be together without fear… free to love her as I’ve always dreamed._

He is still smiling with the sheer joy of that realization as he follows Hermione into the Land of Nod.

_We’re **free**._


	65. The Granger-Malfoy Townhouse Brunch: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys
> 
> My apologies for not detailing all the brunch menu in this update; Macdolas IS going to wax lyrical with all the food and drink descriptions at the start of the next chapter (I ran out of time here). I'm sorry, @hizqueen4life! Soon... 
> 
> Thank you very much to my lovely beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5. All your bright ideas are much appreciated. 
> 
> Many thanks to @sweeteangel1 for her invaluable and patient assistance fixing the French, and helping me out of grammatical sinkholes as I stumble about. Merci beaucoup! 
> 
> I hope you are all staying safe... can you believe it's December?? Nope. It's still March, in my befuddled head.
> 
> xoxo VJ

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

Yawning blissfully, Hermione stretches beneath the covers and shifts closer to the marvellously warm human furnace lying beside her (also known as Draco Lucius Malfoy). Her extending hand encounters something hard, thick, and covered in fine cotton; she grins wickedly and carefully explores his length and girth through the soft fabric.

Draco groans and nudges forward into her firm clasp. “Ungggh… please…”

“Please… who?” Hermione murmurs, slipping her nimble hand inside his boxers. “Say my name, _mon coeur_.”

“Please… Heidi?” Draco cracks open one slate eye, laughing fit to kill as Hermione immediately withdraws her hand and slaps his bare chest indignantly. “Henrietta? Harper? Holly? Heaven? Am I close?” he snorts.

“You _were_ close to getting your ‘fiddle-diddle’ tuned… sadly, you preferred poor comedy to sexual intimacy,” Hermione scooches away, faking disinterest as Draco tries to regather her against him. “Your loss.”

“Come, _ma petite_ , don’t be like that… you know I’m teasing, although you _are_ my Heaven,” he coos. “Hermione – of course you’re the only woman I ever want to touch the Malfoy jewels.”

“’The Malfoy Jewels’, is it?” Hermione sputters. “How lordly of you! And save the cheese for brunch, smartarse. ‘You’re my Heaven’… _honestly_ ,” she clucks her disapproval.

“You wound me, sweetheart... come, don’t be scratchy, _chaton_. Unless you want to scratch my itch,” he leers.

“Incorrigible... you’re a terribly sexy wretch,” Hermione giggles, abandoning her pretence at resistance as Draco kisses her chin and jawline. She cups her hands around him again, relishing his involuntary moan as she lightly grips his tip, slowly dragging down her fingers.

“What time is it? I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule any amorous exploration until after brunch,” Hermione taunts.

“Sod the ruddy brunch – Macdolas can meet and greet, he thrives on the attention,” Draco plays with her nipples, flicking his thumbs back and forth as her breath catches with pleasure.

“That’s rather irresponsible of you, Malfoy... abdicating your hosting duties for the sake of carnal satisfaction? Tut-tut,” Hermione yanks his boxers to his knees and shuffles forward, hooking her left leg over his hip. She guides his hardness to her sex, bumping aggressively and groaning in delight as he slides against her sensitive outer folds.

“Ah, _ta chatte est si douce et mouill_ _ée_ ,” Draco rasps. “I am completely at your mercy, Granger. Time to make good on having your wicked way with me, yes?” he manages to bend his head to suckle at her hardened buds, without breaking their erotic clinch.

“Oh, rest assured I intend to take my pleasure... like this, first– " she positions herself so that the swollen head of Draco’s turgid cock rubs at her clitoris in exactly the right spot - “and perhaps I’ll allow you to enter ‘heaven’, depending on our time constraints... and my largesse,” she goads with a snicker.

“Had I known what a wanton enchantress you are, I would have acted on my attraction much sooner,” Draco pants. “I cannot get enough of you, Hermione – I'm putty in your pretty little hands, and you take full advantage of the fact, don’t you?”.

“That does _not_ feel like putty – more like cast iron,” Hermione thrusts against the hard rod in question, loving the helpless moan Draco releases. “I call bullshit on you pursuing me sooner – I turned up on your doorstep and seduced _you_ silly, remember?”

“I am not likely to forget – it was and always will be one of the greatest nights of my life,” Draco vows. “Kiss me, my beautiful witch.”

Hermione blithely presses her mouth to his, desperate to show him how much she wants – no, _needs_ – him. Her instinctive, wordless mewls intensify as Draco matches her passion with his own, hungrily licking at her lips before plunging his tongue deeply in her willing mouth.

They fumble at the bedclothes, stripping them back as their embrace grows steamier. The cool air is welcome on Hermione’s flushed skin. Clutching at his strapping arms and sinewy shoulders, Hermione slides down as Draco pushes up, rolling her hips for maximum friction.

Legs shaking, Hermione gasps as Draco guides her onto her back, propping his hands beside her head as his mouth mimics the rhythm of his snapping hips. His fingers curl into the sheet beneath as she arches beneath him, rubbing her breasts against his pale, muscled chest.

 _Frottage certainly has much to recommend it…_ “Oooh, do that again, _please_ – ” Hermione interrupts their kiss as Draco presses down a shade harder. He swiftly obeys, growling as she tilts her pelvis in response.

“ _Tu vas jouir si fort sur ma bite, Hermione ... je brûle pour toi, chérie._ Gods, you feel amazing,” Draco groans. “The more I have you – the more I need you, _ma petite_.”

“I feel– I feel the same, Draco… _mon amour, mon âme sœur_ … please, don’t stop…” Hermione cries. Their jagged respiration fills the bedroom, as they urge each other on with kisses and eager touches.

“Wait, wait! The contraceptive charm!” Hermione remembers. She rapidly chants the spell, as Draco does the same.

 _Cripes – that was close… I’d better pay closer attention to Luna’s pearls of wisdom, particularly on crucial Wizarding dates,_ she resolves.

Her hair is a tangled mess around her head, partly obscuring her vision. Sealing her lips to Draco’s once more, she bucks energetically as she chases her orgasm.

**_No one else has ever made me feel like this… only you, Draco._ **

**_Only you, Hermione… my Hermione. Come for me, precious girl. I’m close –_ **

Her eyes fly open, vaguely registering the now-habitual light display of their magical centres blending and fluttering. The sorcerous dots shimmer as they suspend in the air directly above them, illuminating the dim bedroom. Keening uninhibitedly, Hermione crests, her body shuddering in waves of rapture; she scrapes her nails lightly down his torso in sheer delight, as he doggedly continues to grind into her sensitive mons and clitoris.

“Hermione– I’m about to come– I can’t hold off any longer– ” Draco babbles. Twisting slightly, she arcs closer, using her hand to guide him inside as he starts to spill; she holds him tightly as he finds his own peak, pulsing strongly.

He claims her mouth desperately, his arms trembling as he strives to keep his weight off her. Hermione wraps her legs around his buttocks; his hot, convulsive release prolongs her own acme. His back is studded with perspiration, his expression blissful as his kiss morphs to tender and tranquil.

Tracing the beautiful lines of his high cheekbones, Hermione uses their soul bond to communicate her pure joy.

**_I love you, Draco. What we have… it’s so incredibly special – just like you._ **

**_You are the special one, Hermione. I love you so much,_ ma petite lionne _._**

Lips slowly releasing, they gaze raptly at one another. The shimmering magical sparks brush against them affectionately, feeding the loop of energy, power, and unadulterated love.

**Knock! Knock knock knock!**

Draco swears fluently in a wild mix of French and English while Hermione startles; she chokes back a giggle as a high, elven voice squawks through the closed door.

“Master Malfoy and Your Golden Grace, your brunch guests arrive! Macdolas advises you be late!”.

“DON’T COME IN HERE!” Draco roars, agilely rolling them onto their sides and grabbing for the discarded covers.

“Macdolas would not dream of invading the sanctity of the Granger-Malfoy boudoir!” Mac’s vexation is clear, despite the distortion through the wall. “Macdolas respects the private sexings of his masters!”

“Oh hell – he did _not_ just say that!? Please tell me he didn’t say that,” Draco groans, flipping up the coverlet to hide his reddening ears. Hermione chuckles at his embarrassment, poking her head back out to address their fretting butler.

“It’s alright, Mac: will you please make our guests comfortable, and tell them we’ll be down in a few minutes? Thank you, dear.”

“Yes, Your Grace Lady Granger. Macdolas also apprises that the Wirey and Signorina Gelsy are ambulant, though the Wirey complains most vociferously of hammers in his head.” The undertone of gleeful schadenfreude is undisguised.

“Give him some aspirin and Pepper-up Potion, then!” Draco hollers aggrievedly. “Off you go, scamp!”

An annoyed sniff, before little footsteps descend the staircase.

Hermione’s chortles increase to out-and-out guffaws, as Draco pretends to smother himself with a pillow.

“Interfering little pissant,” he grouses.

“He’s just doing his job – and he’s right, we are late,” Hermione argues. “We’d best have a quick shower… we’re somewhat… sticky, right now,” she smirks.

“Agreed: but you must promise not to ravish me again, Granger; I’m quite spent,” Draco grins, planting nipping kisses along her inner wrist and forearm. His striking white-blond hair tumbles endearingly over his brow as Hermione stares adoringly at him.

“I told you it would be epic, hmmm?” she smugly reminds. “Hop up, lazybones. You don’t want Mac to return to bleat another lecture, do you?”.

“Whose idea was it to bring the rascal into our employ? What was I thinking?” Draco sighs self-pityingly.

“Yours - because you love him like a little brother, and you were worried about his broken heart,” Hermione prompts. “My gorgeous, sappy boyfriend.”

Draco ducks his head shyly. “Not at all – it was a staffing issue. Lord of the Manor and all that, don’t you know?”.

He pops to his knees and whips off the bedding in one rapid movement. “Hurry up, time’s a-wasting, my beautiful little laggard.”

“Hey...!” Hermione retaliates by pinching at his lean hips and belly; they briefly wrestle and giggle together, before he plucks her into his arms and jiggles her all the way into the shower.

_My funny, cheeky, sweet-hearted man._

* * *

Saturday 22 March 2003: AM

“Hurry _up_ , Gus – Mr Blaise is going to be here any minute, and we still have to fix your hair!” Tavi impatiently yowls from the loungeroom.

Gus grits her teeth, already regretting consenting to this outing. _Hobnobbing with rich, fancy witches and wizards... getting ideas above our station... Tavi’s near bouncing off the walls and we haven’t even left for the damned soiree!_

Catching sight of her scowl as she passes the tiny, cracked mirror in their doll-sized bathroom, Gus unwillingly cracks a laugh. _You’d think we’d been invited to a funeral, the way I’m carrying on. It’s just a weirdly timed meal with people you barely know from work,_ she tells herself. _Sit quietly in the corner and stuff your face with expensive food if you can’t think of anything to say... And whatever you do, DO NOT let Blaise Zabini demonstrate just how freaking charming he can be. That way, madness lies._

_Well... the insanity of unchecked infatuation, anyway. Just because he’s stunningly handsome... tall... strong... funny... charismatic... unexpectedly sweet... oh, and a rich, sophisticated Pureblood, let’s not forget that – none of that means you should fall at his feet like an overripe apple._

“Gus! GUS!” Tavi shouts stridently.

Quickening her strides, Gus charges into the living room with her dander up. “Tavi - please show me the respect of not screaming at me from another room – and my hair is perfectly fine, it does not need ‘fixing’. Hello, Mrs Green,” she affectionately pats the hand of their septuagenarian neighbour, who is putting the finishing touches to Tavi’s complicated hairdo.

“Hullo, pet – the kidda’s right though, there’s nowt wrong with looking your best, lass. We’ve still time–"

A jaunty rap sounds on the front door.

“No time now - what a shame,” Gus murmurs insincerely. “Tavi - would you like to answer the door? And CHECK it is indeed Blaise, before you open it, please,” she admonishes, as the little girl tears erratically down the short hallway. _She’s favouring her right hip a little... she’ll want to be careful of it, and not overtax herself,_ Gus critically assesses.

“Let the child run wild a wee bit today – she’s hankering for magical company summat fierce, and she’s taken a proper liking to this bobby dazzla man of yours, Gus,” Nella Green nods sagely from the shabby armchair. She pulls down the sleeves of her hand-knitted aqua cardigan to fully cover her wiry arms.

“He’s not MY bobby dazzla man– " Gus lowers her voice as her raucous objection echoes in the small apartment. “He's simply a work acquaintance – you know this, Mrs Green. This is not a fairy tale – and Blaise Zabini is _not_ a prince.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Blaise’s amused drawl sounds as Tavi tows him around the corner. “My dreams of royal pretensions – hopelessly crushed. Oh, well,” he sighs theatrically. “I suppose one lord in our group is aristocratic enough.”

Gus twitches in horror, mouth agape. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” she lamely replies. “Um, Blaise – I'd like you to meet Mrs Green; Mrs Green, this is Mr Blaise Zabini,” she rushes to change the subject and divert attention from her flaming face.

Blaise turns his megawatt smile onto Nella; he reaches to kiss her thin hand, only to have his own smartly slapped.

“Haddaway with ye, lad – no cadging my good favour that easily,” she lambastes, as Blaise’s genial expression temporarily freezes. He holds up his big hands in surrender, tipping back his head to let loose an infectious belly laugh.

“I’d best up my game – between you and Gussie, my ego is in sad tatters,” he grins, sketching a graceful bow.

“Well, now – she lets ye call her ‘Gussie’?” Nella queries. “Interesting.”

“I do not – I've already warned Mr Zabini about that,” Gus snaps.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Green,” Blaise ignores the caution. “I understand your husband was a wizard? And your accent is charming... you’re a Novocastrian?”

“Geordie, aye,” Mrs Green sniffs, though her faded blue eyes are bright with shrewd humour. “You’re a canny, canny lad – a class act – but I’ll be wanting a word with ye, afore I let you take my lasses anywhere. Gus, Tavi – we'll not be but a wink.”

She holds up a peremptory, gnarled finger as Gus tries to object.

“Mrs Green– really, it’s not necessary–”

“Wait out in the hallway, please.”

 _Oh, hell – like I’m not embarrassed enough._ Gus throws a desperate look at Nella; she mouths ‘Be nice’ to the older woman, before hustling Tavi outside.

“Gus, you told me it’s rude to eavesdrop,” Tavi tsks, as Gus presses her ear to the keyhole.

“Doesn’t matter – I can’t hear a thing,” a disgruntled Gus admits, stomping down the corridor.

Blaise lets himself out of the apartment a few minutes later, whistling as though he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Ready to go, Ms and Miss Gilmont?” he cheerily asks.

“What happened? What did Mrs Green say to you?” Gus blurts, before she can rein in her apprehensive curiosity.

“Oh, Nella and I came to an understanding,” Blaise blithely deflects. “She’s a pussycat, beneath all that Northern bluster.” He cocks his head as he notes her annoyed expression, bestowing his slowest, cockiest, most captivating smile.

“Ah - you were hoping Mrs Green would chew me up and spit me out, huh?” He shakes his head pityingly. “Here’s the thing: Nella can smell bullshit a mile away – she informed me so herself – and I’ve told the truth about my interest in you all along... Gus.” The short syllable sounds like an endearment, shaped perfectly by his comely mouth.

Tavi is watching them indulgently; she slips one hand in Gus’s... and surprises both adults by reaching for Blaise with the other.

“Hurry up, please,” she urges, skipping between them a little awkwardly. Gus feels her heart clench as she witnesses how gently Blaise takes Tavi’s hand... and subtly steadies her slight lurch by offering his muscular forearm as ballast.

_Does he have to be so goddamn nice?!_

Grumbling inwardly, Gus nevertheless feels her spirits lift, as they make their way out of the tired old building.

_This just might be a fun day, after all._

* * *

_Saturday March 22: AM_

“Where’s Pansy, is she here yet? Is she OK?” Harry meets them at the bottom of the stairs. Macdolas deflates the giant breath he’d inhaled, looking decidedly cranky as Harry effectively cancels whatever ridiculous string of honorific titles the verbose elf had intended to spout by way of announcing Harry’s presence.

“Hello to you, too, Potter,” Draco dryly remarks. “How would we know where Pansy is, you drip? We’ve literally just come downstairs.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Harry leans forward to give Hermione a light hug. “Hi, Hermione – how are you feeling, love? Did you sleep well?”.

“Hi, Harry – I slept fantastically well, thank you,” Hermione answers.

Draco pretends to cough to hide his sardonic grin as he considers how they ‘woke up’. He nimbly dodges Hermione’s jabbed elbow to his ribs.

“Has anyone else arrived? Where’s that paralytic little bounder Wireceaster – has he finally been prised off the furniture?” Draco addresses Macdolas.

“Macdolas sends the Wirey upstairs to bathe, Master Macdolas – the Wirey stinks, Signorina Gelsomina tells the Wirey so!” he exultantly crows, rubbing together his osseous little hands.

Draco performs a double-take as he takes a closer look at the diminutive butler’s odd appearance.

“What the devil is smeared across your face, Macdolas? No, don’t sneak off–” Draco grabs the back of his studded leather lamellar armour before the elf can skitter away. “Turn to face me, please.”

Huffing truculently, Macdolas spins on his hand-stitched brown boots, the skirt of his Clan Fhionnlaigh kilt flaring. He crosses his arms as he jerks up his face for Draco’s inspection.

The overall theme of Macdolas’s outfit is clearly ‘Scottish Highlander’; the orange, green, blue, yellow, and purple plaid squares of the traditional tartan kilt are teamed with a coarse brown shirt, topped by the laced-together leather chest plate. Tucked into the side of the wide brown leather belt is a sheathed sword, and Macdolas’s brassy red locks have been styled with two small plaits at either temple.

The pièce de résistance is inarguably the bizarre splotch of bright blue pigment adorning most of Macdolas’s pointy face, beginning in the middle of his hairline and continuing straight down to bisect his nose and mouth, ending past his chin. A smaller blue stripe also marks his other cheek.

_Really makes his green eyes pop… in a deranged kind of way._

“Macdolas: am I correct in identifying that is _my_ good Jackson’s Cobalt Blue Genuine paint currently liberally daubed across your phiz? Dare I even ask why you saw fit to raid my art supplies in such a crazed fashion?” Draco wearily enquires, scrubbing agitatedly at his own face.

“Macdolas and Ruibby watch Her Grace Lady Granger’s video ‘Braveheart’, Master Malfoy; ‘tis the true story of the Great Scots warrior and patriot Sir William Wallace – Macdolas proudly wears his darlingest Ruibby’s gifted kilt and adopts the stylings of the mighty Braveheart!”. His brogue thickens as he bawls, “Tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM! _Alba gu bràth_!”.

He fumbles at his heavy sword, but Draco is quicker, deftly confiscating the item before it can draw innocent blood. Potter isn’t making the slightest effort to hide his hilarity, while Hermione is biting her lip and silently shaking with mirth.

“Did I not tell you last night that your dangerous stash of borrowed weaponry was to be returned to the Manor, post haste?” Draco rebukes, shoving the sword against the hallway coat rack (for the time being). “And that paint is designed for canvas, not skin – wash your silly face at once, please, before you suffer an allergic reaction or suchlike.”

“Macdolas did return the borrowed blades to the Manor – this be his privately acquired sword! Macdolas isn’t stupid, Master Malfoy; he reads the tubes and learns paint is only unfit for _consumption_ ,” he condescendingly advises. “As long as Macdolas does not purposefully ingest the Cobalt Blue Genuine, he remains unimperiled.”

“Let him keep his Braveheart make-up, Draco,” Hermione lays a gentle hand on Draco’s arm. “He’s actually done a fine job of replicating the look – you should watch the film, it’s reasonably historically accurate.”

“Macdolas thanks Your Grace! Ruibby helps Macdolas immensely; his beloved applies the paint and braids the hair,” the puffed-up pygmy nods.

“Let’s hope she’s prepared to nurse you back to health when you sicken from paint poisoning,” Draco wryly comments. “Please return this sword to your room; we’ve a multitude of guests arriving, and I won’t allow blades anywhere near Gus Gilmont’s younger sister, Macdolas.”

“Gus has a little sister?” Harry asks, bemusement wreathed across his features. “She’s never spoken a word of her before.”

“Some detective you are, Potter – it shan’t be long before Gilmont is your superior, I’d wager,” Draco gibes. “Blaise is bringing them both to brunch, if you must know.”

The sound of the Floo resonates from the lounge; Harry outstrips Macdolas off the mark as they scurry to investigate the new arrivals.

“Potter’s utterly _potty_ for Pansy, isn’t he?” Draco whispers to Hermione as they progress to the living room at a far more sedate pace.

“Shhh - look at them!” Hermione breathes delightedly as they round the corner. Theo and Luna are standing to the side; Harry makes a beeline for Pansy as she exits last, skidding to a stop and grinning ingenuously as he carefully enwraps her hands with his.

“Hi, Pansy.”

“Hi, Harry.”

The couple stare raptly at each other, oblivious to their audience.

“And you lot claim Hermione and I are sickeningly sweet,” Draco carps. “Step away from the Floo, we’re expecting half of London to arrive. Good morning Theo, Luna.” He half-hugs Theo and kisses Luna’s cheek; Hermione moves in to greet the pair.

“You look much better today, Hermione... the hectic flush you were sporting last night has been replaced by a much more natural glow,” Luna calmly observes. “Is it from your magical cores further combining, or perhaps– "

“It’s our soul bond!” Hermione hastily interrupts. “Thank you, Luna; you look well-rested? That’s a gorgeous shirt-waister you have on,” she gestures to the cockatoo-pink dress Luna is wearing.

“Oh, yes – we stayed with Theo and had a slumber party... it was fun, though we fell asleep rather quickly,” Luna divulges. “I understand proper slumber parties involve pillow fights and staying up all night gossiping, is that right? Pansy did rant for a while, but she had every right to, of course.”

“Anyway, Theo loaned me his shirt, I Transfigured it a little to better fit. Pansy’s wearing his pants and top, she said his personal style is refreshingly contemporary.” Luna points to Pansy’s bright red silk blouse and black stovepipe trousers.

“Gryffindor red – that's an interesting selection,” Draco can’t resist pointing out.

“Malfoy, do stop baiting them – they're adorable together... “ Hermione hisses, sotto voice. “We’ll have to organize a big slumber party soon, Luna; I’m sorry you never had one in the Ravenclaw dormitories. Girls only, Draco – though Theo may attend, if he promises not to spill our secrets,” she smiles.

“Why should Theo get a run?” Draco whines. “That’s grossly unfair.”

Hermione merrily ignores him. “Guess what – Blaise is bringing Gus Gilmont – and her little sister!” she squeals excitedly. “Plus, Mum and Dad are coming, and Narcissa... we’re all going to have so much fun catching up.”

“When does Lucius’s home arrest end, Draco?” Theo enquires. Harry and Pansy are still shyly gazing at each other and holding hands, though they have moved clear of the Floo.

“June first. It will be an adjustment for him... I think he’s developed some agoraphobia (understandably so), but he has agreed to work with a therapist, if you can believe it,” Draco replies.

“Wow. That’s great, Draco. Narcissa must be thrilled – and relieved,” Theo muses.

The Floo actuates as Draco nods. Jane Granger steps out, followed by her husband; Draco’s brows join in puzzlement as he takes in Bernard’s unusual choice of headwear: a bright yellow, plastic… helmet?

“Mum – Dad – I’m so glad to see you!” Hermione throws herself into her parents’ open arms, hugging them fiercely. Affectionate kisses are exchanged; Jane draws aside her daughter, tears of relief in her eyes.

“Sweetie, are you alright? We were so worried after reading the Prophet this morning – but Draco told us how brave and strong you were last night. Let me look at you,” Jane presses her hands to Hermione’s cheeks, holding her in place as she scrutinizes her physical condition.

“I’m fine – I’m terrific, actually,” Hermione reassures her mother. “We got him, Mum – McLaggen won’t see daylight again for a very long time. Flint, too,” she bares her teeth in a triumphant victor’s grin.

“That’s my Little Wendy – we’re so proud of you, daughter o’ mine,” Bernard chimes in. He fumbles at the straps of the helmet. “Help your Dad out, please, love? Your mother insisted we use the dratted fireplace system – I didn’t want to risk banging my head if I ended up in the wrong ruddy chimney,” he expounds.

“Dad, you know the Floo is perfectly safe – you just have to speak your intended destination clearly and assuredly; I do think wearing a bicycle helmet is overkill… but you do you,” Hermione shakes her head resignedly, though she is smiling widely at Barney’s unconventional approach. She swiftly unsnaps the nylon fastenings and hands him the helmet.

“Now, you know Luna, and Harry; I’d like to introduce you to Theo Nott, and Pansy Parkinson,” Hermione does the honours.

“Hi, Luna love; Theo – lovely to meet you; and hello, Draco – you’re looking pale, nothing new there, eh? Let go of the woman, Harry – I want to shake the hand of the witch who busted that bastard’s testicle,” Bernard unceremoniously shoulders Harry aside to vigorously engage Pansy in an enthusiastic handshake.

“If ever you need dental work, Miss Parkinson – just open your mouth a tad wider, let’s have a quick gander – nice, nice, nothing wrong with a regular check-up, though – what was I saying? Oh, right – free dentistry for life from the Granger & Granger Surgery, all costs covered, of course… however, if you happen to bring in your house elf for a look-see, I wouldn’t say no…” Bernard ‘hints’ cheekily.

Pansy rocks with laughter. “Sorry to disappoint, Mr Granger – I don’t have a house elf, but I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“Call me Barney, I insist,” Bernard gregariously decrees. “Wipe that scowl off your face, Harry – no one would think to look at you that you’ve just helped put away a couple of evil, predatory scumbags… though of course, full credit goes to Pansy and Hermione.”

“Of course,” Harry flatly echoes. “You can let go of Pansy’s hand, now.”

Bernard chuckles. “No need to get tetchy, Harry. You know I’ve only ever had eyes for my Jane.”

“Jane’s standing over there – I suggest you join her,” Harry deadpans.

Macdolas breaks the tension. “Master Malfoy, visitors knock on the front door! Macdolas bids good day to Her Grace Lady Jane Granger and Father Dentist Granger,” he chatters, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Excuse us, please,” Draco snugs his arm around Hermione’s waist, leading her to the front door. “Thank you, Macdolas; would you please direct everyone to the back garden? Is everything in place?”

“Indeed, Master Malfoy! The redoubtable, radiant and resourceful Ruibby be putting the final touches to the brunch banquet, Macdolas thusly recites the mouth-wateringly flavoursome and delectable selections– ”

“Save it until we’re all seated, Macdolas,” Draco ruthlessly curtails the elf’s high-pitched, loquacious description.

“He’s over-stimulated already – I fervently hope the menu is low in sugar,” Draco mutters, as he reaches for the handle of the front door. “And he’d better not pick a fight with Wirey; I’m positive it’s no coincidence that Macdolas has chosen a combative knight’s costume today… he’s a pugnacious little chit.”

He swings open the door before Hermione can predictably charge to Macdolas’s defence.

“Zabini. Hello, Auror Gilmont… and you must be Miss Octavia,” Draco smiles at the little blonde girl standing between the two adults on the stoop. “Please, come in.”

“Good morning, Lord Mr Malfoy. It is a very, very great honour to meet you, Miss – I mean, Ms – Hermione Granger,” the child carefully bobs a wobbly curtsey, plucking at imaginary skirts around her jeans.

Draco’s mouth parts in surprise when Blaise solicitously steadies Octavia’s balance with one big paw. _Well, well, well…_ He files away the observation for later examination and discussion ( _read ribbing_ ).

Hermione beams at the girl. “Hello! Please call me Hermione – and this is Draco. We’re very happy you could join us, Octavia. Hi, Blaise. Good morning, Auror Gilmont. Thank you so much for your help last night.”

“There’s no need to thank me – I was just doing my job,” Gus mumbles. “Erm, thanks for inviting us – I understand if it’s too much of an imposition, you probably didn’t expect us to tag along– ”

“Oh, Auror Gilmont - we’re honoured to have you here, truly. Just as long as you promise not to talk shop with Harry all day,” Hermione winks.

“Please call me Gus; and this rascal is Tavi,” Gus visibly relaxes.

The child’s eyes are eagerly darting around the townhouse’s foyer; Tavi keenly petitions, “Excuse me, Miss Hermione and Mr Draco… but do you _really_ have house elves? I’ve never met one before, but I’ve read as many books as I can about them. Mr Blaise told me you have five… I thought he must be pulling my leg.”

“Well, we have five here today, but three of them are just visiting,” Hermione answers. “Please come out to the back garden, you can meet them all… plus the other witches and wizards. Oh, and my parents are here, too; and Draco’s mother should arrive soon.’

“Now, please don’t be frightened when you first clap eyes on Macdolas; he’s famous for his elaborate costumes, and today he’s dressed as a medieval Scottish warrior nicknamed ‘Braveheart’,” Hermione gently cautions, as Tavi trots close behind her through the kitchen/dining room.

“That’s Sir William Wallace, isn’t it? Gus reads me history texts as bedtime stories,” Tavi cheerily explains, as Hermione’s eyes widen in surprise. “She says that too many fairy tales build unrealistic expectations of the truths of life.”

 _A touch harsh – but fair_ , Draco internally concedes, while Blaise chuckles.

“I do throw in regular stories, too,” Gus says defensively. “And we’ve an excellent collection of ‘Feminist Fairy Tales’, in which the heroines save themselves, or the dopey prince.” She shoots a smug look at Blaise, whose snicker abruptly fades.

“Ouch,” Zabini comments. The intense look he gives Gus makes her cheeks pinken, before she resolutely looks elsewhere. 

Draco hastens to open the French doors for their little group. “Sit wherever you like; and don’t worry about our neighbours, the whole property is sound- and magic-proofed,” he informs. “Hermione, _ma petite_ : would you please make the introductions? I think I just heard the Floo.”

“Of course, Draco.” Hermione busses a quick kiss on his willing lips, before shooing him back inside.

Pacing into the lounge, Draco quirks an eyebrow at the sight of Ginny Weasley and Viktor Krum passionately lip-locked on the couch… hands roving and squeezing frenziedly.

 _No prizes for guessing how they spent the night._ Ginny’s golden dress has been Transfigured into a smart, shimmering jumpsuit, while Viktor is attired similarly to Draco and the other men: dark jeans and a collared shirt.

“Ahem.” The amorous couple don’t even look up; Draco tries anew.

“Ten points from Gryffindor!”. _Aha, that did the trick_ ; Ginny athletically jack-knifes off Viktor, springing to her feet. She relaxes her stance as she spots Draco sniggering beside them.

“Channelling your inner Prefect Prat again, Malfoy?” Ginny snipes, though without any true heat. 

“Well, would you rather Potter had stumbled upon your impromptu snog-a-thon?” Draco rebuts. “I imagine that would be somewhat embarrassing – for everyone concerned.”

Viktor pushes his thick fingers through his rumpled dark hair. “Draco makes a good point, Ginny-evra – we haff to take care not to rub Harry’s eyes in salt.”

 _Riiiight_. Draco nods emphatically. “And fair warning: Potter and Pansy have been busy making goo-goo eyes at each other, since she arrived. But for the sake of Gus Gilmont’s little sister, can you please refrain from any more heavy petting until you’re alone again? Great. Head to the kitchen and through the French doors, we’re eating outside.”

Ginny flicks her long auburn ponytail over her shoulder. Gathering Krum’s hand, she tugs him upright, before sauntering in the direction Draco indicated.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Draco; sorry we got a little carried away,” she breezily underplays their heated clinch. “See you outside.”

 _Viktor hasn’t taken his eyes off her since they sprang apart,_ Draco ruminates, tapping his bottom lip as he watches the loved-up couple depart. _Luna might be onto something with her ‘seventeen percent’ spring equinox theories… I hope they took heed of her warning, last night…_

 **Hummmm-rumble-whirrrr**. An atypically frazzled Narcissa Malfoy emerges from the Floo, fluffing at her blonde coiffure.

“Draco, _mon fils_ – I do apologize for running a little late… the new potion Healer Kuznetsova prescribed for your father has… well, let’s just say it’s resulted in some unexpectedly beneficial side effects – some _friskiness_ – and, ah, one thing led to another– ”

“No! Mother, please – that’s more than enough information,” Draco interjects, appalled at Narcissa’s sudden candidness. _Eeww. This must be my karma, for encouraging Barney Granger to retell the story of Hermione’s conception at every opportunity._

“Let’s– let’s just join the rest of the party, shall we? And never speak of Father’s… renewed _sprightliness_ … ever again,” he implores.

Narcissa’s tiny, wicked smile as she takes Draco’s proffered arm instantly makes him nervous.

“You needn’t think your generation miraculously discovered sex, Draco; and Lucius is not yet fifty, there’s plenty of spark left in his Fizzing Whizzbee – no, don’t cringe, you’ll be glad of your inherited stamina, when you and Hermione are our age,” she ploughs on relentlessly.

 _Merlin’s sagging arse! What on earth’s gotten into my perfectly proper, patrician parent?_ Draco quick-steps into the kitchen, hoping that exposure to the gathered company will silence Narcissa’s unasked-for frankness.

“Speaking of which: are you planning on dithering over your proposal to that darling girl much longer? I don’t mean to harangue you, Draco; but you must admit, you’ve already spent a decade pining for Hermione… it’s past time to speed things up, don’t you think?” Narcissa prods.

Jolting to a stop beside the dining room table, Draco turns his shocked face to her. “Wait– you– you knew how I felt about her? Ever since…”

“Ever since you first laid eyes on her? Yes, Draco. I’m sorry I never discussed it with you… of course, all our dreadful blood purity rhetoric initially put paid to that, and then… the War, and its aftermath…” Narcissa fiddles at the clutch of her chic handbag.

“I was racking my brain to think of ways to somehow engender a fresh meeting between the two of you – of course, I never wanted Hermione to be in any danger, this roofie business was simply horrific, and terrifying–” her voice chokes.

Mind awhirl, Draco quietly waits for her composure to return.

“You were fading away in front of me, Draco; not physically, but you were starving for love and belonging… locked up in your own modern ivory tower here, painting furiously and withdrawing a little further from the world with every sundown,” Narcissa’s mouth quivers. “I can never thank Hermione – and all your friends – enough, for bringing the light back into your eyes, my son.”

Throat tight, Draco shuffles to enfold his mother in a close, heartfelt hug. She returns the embrace with interest, her slender frame shaking a little. The two stand together silently for a smattering of moments, before the hubbub of genial conversation drifts in from the open French doors.

“I love you, Mother,” Draco says, hoarsely yet firmly. “But please – trust that I have my own timeline, for Hermione and me. It has to be right, for both of us.”

“Very well,” Narcissa sighs acquiescingly. “Do please remember that I’d much prefer to be a fun, hip, _young_ grandmother, though.”

“Mother – no one says ‘hip’ anymore – and you literally just bragged about your youthful vitality,” Draco groans. “You’re doing my head in, honestly.”

“What a terrible thing to say to your poor mother!” Narcissa laughs. “I love you too, Draco. Come, let’s join your bruncheon party and show them the true wondrousness of Malfoy hospitality.”

Hooking her arm through his once again, Narcissa struts confidently out the door, her peach-coloured silk gown swishing softly at her ankles.

A sea of relaxed, happy faces focuses upon them. Draco takes a minute to appreciate the scene.

Macdolas and Ruibby’s capable industriousness has resulted in two long tables (covered in plain white linen tablecloths), situated parallel to one another, in the spacious, high-walled back garden. Glasses and cutlery gleam in the unfiltered sunlight of a beautiful spring day, and each place setting is decorated with a single pale yellow rose; larger posies of the blossoms are the centrepieces.

The delicious smells emanating from the staggering array of dishes available are utterly scrumptious; Draco is amazed at the quantity and quality available.

 _Our elves were naughty little scalawags last night (well, with the exception of Kreacher) – but we’re extremely fortunate to have such clever, talented, loyal employees… no, family,_ he corrects. He catches sight of Hermione waving spiritedly at them from the far table. Her vivacious face is alight with happiness and relaxed contentment.

“Draco, over here! I saved you both a seat,” she beckons, patting the empty chairs to either side of her. “Hurry, sweetheart – Macdolas is growing cross, he’s champing at the bit to enumerate all the dishes.” Hermione points to the chair at the head of the other table: Macdolas is standing atop it, jittering like a cat on hot bricks. His foot taps an impatient rhythm, audible even over the din of numerous conversations.

Pulling out the seat for Narcissa, Draco slides into his own. Acting on impulse, he bends his head to Hermione’s to capture her lush mouth in a fervid, passionate kiss. His thumbs stroke the side of her jaw as benevolent snickers break out around them.

“Wha– what was that for?” Hermione dazedly asks, as he finally withdraws his lips. “Not that I’m objecting, mind.”

Smiling reverently at her, Draco announces (deliberately projecting his voice for the rest of the party to hear): “That was to unequivocally say, I love you, Hermione Jean Granger; I always have, and I always will.”

“Now, Macdolas – what are you waiting for, shrimpet? Get a wriggle on – we’re starving, here!”

* * *

**French translations:**

_Ta chatte est si douce et mouill_ _ée –_ Your pussy is so soft and wet.

 _Tu vas jouir si fort sur ma bite, Hermione... je brûle pour toi, chérie_ – You're going to come so hard on my cock, Hermione... I burn for you, darling.

 _mon amour, mon âme sœur –_ my heart, my soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to @CarrieMaxwell for reminding me how isolated Draco was, before Hermione washed up on his doorstep. I needed that prompt! Thank you.


	66. The Granger-Malfoy Townhouse Brunch: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys
> 
> I added a couple of new P.O.V.s in this chapter... I do hope you like them.  
> So, it turns out that having all these characters in the one place at the same time makes for a LOT of extra content... which will take at least one more chapter to properly address. I apologize, I love writing these people and tend to get a wee bit carried away 🙄😕.
> 
> Many thanks to all of my brilliant readers. I appreciate you all so much.  
> Special thanks to @Bex-is-a-Slytherin for her input regarding Tavi's condition. 
> 
> Much love from VJ 🧡😍🧡

__

_Saturday 22 March 2003: AM_

“As the proud Elfish Representative of the Townhouse of Granger-Malfoy, Macdolas officially welcomes the venerated and honourable guests gracing us with their esteemed presence at this informal bruncheon: Macdolas thusly acknowledges the invaluable contribution of his darlingest Ruibby in organizing and preparing the bountiful repast you see here before you.” He puffs his chest as everyone enthusiastically claps and cheers.

“Special mention must be given to Elder Master Kreacher and Signorina Gelsomina for their supportive preparatory contributions! To the Wirey, Macdolas gives thanks that his undignified state of self-induced stupor keeps the Wirey from getting underfoot this morning. Regrettably, Master Macdolas provides scant notice to his conscientious and sedulous elven staff, and yet they rise to the occasion to present to you – without further ado – the following delectable dishes…”

Macdolas hitches at his brown leather belt, clearly in his element as he stands at the head of the far table. Hermione shakes her head minutely, pre-empting Draco’s verbal objection to the ‘scant notice’ dig.

“Malfoy, you did deserve that, after baiting him with your ‘get a wriggle on’ quip,” she murmurs quietly. “Let Mac have his moment in the sun.”

“He was vaccinated with a gramophone needle, I swear it,” Draco ungraciously grumbles. “Cheeky twerp.”

“…Arabian buttered eggs, soft-poached on lightly toasted Turkish bread, garnished with mint and lemon; roasted pumpkin and feta tartlets, stuffed with ricotta, olives, pine nuts, and chopped thyme; wild mushroom bruschetta, infused with fried garlic, eschalots, and mixed herbs; warm corn and coriander fritters, garnished with grilled cherry tomatoes and fresh chopped avocado; peach and goat’s curd mini pizzas, scattered with crushed macadamia nuts and drizzled with maple syrup; banana muffins with passionfruit glacé icing– ” Mac breaks off, wheezing for breath; sitting catty-corner to him, Harry thumps the over-excited elf lightly on the back as he turns an alarming shade of puce.

“Ruibby continues in Macdolas’s stead whilst her domestic warrior beau sips water and recovers his equilibrium!” At the other end of the table, Ruibby lays a dainty hand on Theo’s as he assists her in standing atop her own chair. “Ruibby thanks Master Nott most kindly,” she flits her blonde lashes at him.

“Damnation – I thought we’d been granted a reprieve,” Draco mutters, at the change in orators.

Speaking in a high, clear voice (with surprisingly excellent projection) Ruibby seamlessly resumes the menu listing.

“Other tasty options include: apple pancakes with whipped cream; French toast with cinnamon sugar pangrattato, rhubarb compote and mascarpone; cherry, chocolate, and pistachio friands; individual berry muesli bowls, Sneakers croissants– ”

“Snickers! Snickers croissants, _très cher_ Ruibby,” Macdolas croaks. “Puff pastry crescents stuffed with portions of Snickers bars, slivered almonds, and caramel syrup topping.”

“ _Snickers_ croissants; and a six-cheese platter with quince paste and chutneys,” Ruibby finishes with a little sniff. “Refreshing beverages include water, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, Virgin Pina Colada, Virgin Bloody Mary, Peach Sparkler, Blackberry Lemon Mocktail, Honey-Sweetened Limeade with Strawberries and Basil, plus a selection of plain juices.”

“Macdolas advises that a fine assortment of cakes comprise the dessert course! New York baked cheesecake topped with fresh raspberries; chocolate coconut; lemon yoghurt with syrup; vanilla cupcakes; hummingbird; and coffee cake with walnuts.” Macdolas gulps in a huge lungful of air, as Ruibby glares at him.

“Ruibby asks Macdolas why he asks Ruibby to recite the foodstuffs when Macdolas constantly interrupts her? Ruibby herself makes most of the cakes; Macdolas promises credit be given for efforts expended!” she squeaks unhappily.

“Herr Wireceaster asks, where is _der Strudel_?” Wirey has meandered out into the garden party unnoticed; he hovers by Macdolas’s chair, looking dour (albeit clean).

Scrambling off his seat, Macdolas almost bumps chests with his German counterpart. He growls, “Macdolas advises the Wirey to shove his precious _strudel_ in his– ”

Hermione is about to intervene when Draco hastily booms, “In his mouth, of course! Please don’t wait on ceremony, everyone – dig in, we’ll be eating leftovers until May, at this rate. Thank you kindly, Ruibby, Macdolas. Here, Wireceaster – allow me to escort you to your seat,” he hooks a finger into the nape of Wirey’s suit collar to firmly direct him to the vacant chair at the end of table two.

A fascinated Bernard Granger cranes his neck to watch as Draco murmurs something stern to the downcast Teutonic sprite. Wirey nods miserably; Gelsy’s black hair ribbon bobs, tied as it now is around one of his large ears.

“I say, Little Wendy – your house elves are feisty little critters, aren’t they? How much d’you reckon I’d need to shell out to hire one for our Christmas shindig this year?” Bernard asks, in apparent sincerity.

“Dad – please don’t refer to them as ‘critters’ – that’s a bad example of speciesism,” Hermione rebukes. “You can’t just hire house elves like a clown at a children’s party; and you couldn’t afford one, anyway.”

“Barney, listen to your daughter, please: did you not absorb any of those S.P.E.W. speeches Hermione used to practise on us during school vacation?” Jane chips. “Elves are a special race of magical beings with unique powers and a tragic history of enslavement and abuse, and we support them fully in their relatively recent emancipation,” she finishes, smiling proudly at Hermione.

“Thanks, Mum,” Hermione replies, mollified by her mother’s input. Draco returns to the table, having detoured to deliver an equally strict lecture to Macdolas.

“Everything OK?” she asks her beau. The busy sound of crockery and cutlery being accessed and shared mutes her question; Draco leans in slightly, kissing her temple tenderly.

“All is well, sweetheart; I’ve advised Wirey and Macdolas to grant each other a wide berth for the rest of the day, since they apparently can’t refrain from baiting one another. Oh, and I confiscated these from Macdolas,” Draco pulls a thick stack of Polaroids from his jeans pocket. He teasingly holds them aloft as Hermione reaches for them.

“Patience, _ma petite_ – these are too good to be smeared by sticky fingers,” he grins. “Besides, I want to ensure they have the maximum comedic effect… I’m not cross in the slightest that our elven rascals used up half of our film stock last night. These are absolutely HILARIOUS,” he snickers. “Pass the mushroom bruschetta, please?”.

“Here you are, Hermione dear,” Narcissa waves her beautifully manicured hand, Accio’ing the requested dish along the table. “I’m afraid Draco takes after his father in the ‘aggravating man’ stakes,” she chuckles.

She carefully settles her right hand over Hermione’s left. “How are you, dear girl? I cannot imagine how terrifying last night must have been, for you and Pansy. I am simply in awe of how strong, smart, and powerful you are… as is Lucius. He sends his best wishes, by the way.” Narcissa pats her hand gently, her indigo eyes crinkling as she smiles affectionately.

_That’s a turn-up for the books, as Dad likes to say._

“Oh… um, thank you. And I hope Lucy – I mean Lucius – is well? Draco mentioned he is consulting with a Healer?” Hermione responds, genuinely interested.

“Don’t talk about that!” Draco sticks his head forward, clearly alarmed. “I’ll be forced to switch seats if you take another stroll down that rocky road, Mother.”

“Hush, _mon fils_ : Hermione isn’t half the prude you are, Draco. And darling, feel free to continue calling my husband ‘Lucy’ – I do enjoy seeing him thwarted in such an easy fashion,” Narcissa decrees. “I’m thrilled that he’s finally accepting assistance and support; though he has a long road to full recovery, admitting he needs help is a huge step forward for him.”

“I’m glad, Narcissa.” Hermione is surprised at the truthfulness of that statement _. Lucius has been a terrible person… and an extremely problematic father… but I’m beginning to comprehend why Narcissa loves him so fiercely. I’m still going to call him Lucy, and revel in his displeased little mouth-twist every time he hears me say it,_ Hermione smiles inwardly.

“Now, Hermione,” Narcissa lowers her voice a little, “What are we thinking, for Macdolas’s birthday extravaganza? Before I leave, I’d like us to consult with Ruibby, too; she’s bound to have some astute ideas, particularly regarding the menu.”

“As long as Ruibby doesn’t jump out of an over-sized cake wearing a bikini, let her do whatever she wants,” Draco inserts himself back into the conversation. “You’ve no idea what I’ve inadvertently witnessed the two fey lovebirds doing under this roof, Mother… _no idea_ ,” he shudders exaggeratedly.

“Draco! Ruibby would never countenance being involved in such an outrageous spectacle!” Narcissa reproaches.

“Ignore him, Narcissa – it’s a stereotypically sexist Muggle thing seen in a bunch of B-grade movies,” Hermione explains. “Draco’s flexing his dubious humour muscles again,” she teases.

“Hey, I’m funny,” Draco defends, setting down the platter of apple pancakes to slide his arm around her waist and drop a light kiss to her lips. “I’ll show you some more interesting aspects of my physique later, if you like,” he whispers seductively in her ear.

“It’s a deal,” Hermione softly purrs, casually scraping her short nails over the length of Draco’s seated thigh, loving the way he instantly stills at her touch. _Like a white tiger scenting prey_. “Behave for now… and perhaps we can be naughty, tonight.”

Removing her hand and pinning a demure expression to her face, Hermione returns her attention to Lady Malfoy.

“I’m all ears, Narcissa.”

* * *

Blaise watches in delight as Kreacher scrupulously passes custody of his little black kitten to Tavi; the little girl’s brown eyes are massive as she swings her attention between the twin marvels of the elderly house elf seated beside her, and the tiny feline in his hands.

“Thank you very much, Mister Kreacher!” Tavi breathes, as Boadie settles on her lap beneath the table. “She’s so sweet and cuddly! I promise I won’t drop her, I’ll be super careful.” Her joyful mien fades a little as she confesses, “Sometimes I lose control of my muscles all of a sudden… that’s why I try to use both hands, in case one of them acts up.”

“Kreacher tells Little Miss Tavi she is most welcome, and shouldn’t worry; all cats land on their feet. Little Miss need not call Kreacher ‘Mister’, Kreacher is merely Kreacher,” the elf amends placidly. “Boadie likes Little Miss, yes she does,” he nods in satisfaction as the kitten extends her tiny claws into Tavi’s jeans and begins kneading in contentment.

Across the table, Harry disgruntledly comments, “Kreacher wouldn’t let _me_ hold her – claimed he had no confidence that my hands were clean enough to handle a cat.”

“Aww… no need to be bitter about it, Harry; you’re cute, but you’re not half as adorable as Boadie or Tavi,” Pansy razzes, smiling to take the sting from her jest.

“You think I’m cute, Pansy?” Harry abandons all interest in the moggy, gazing deeply into Pansy’s suddenly shy green eyes.

To his left, Blaise glimpses Gus rolling her eyes at the cutesy by-play.

Pitching his tone lower so only she can hear him, Blaise queries, “You don’t approve of the newest Slytherdor couple, Gus? Harry’s bowled clean over, by the looks of him,” he tips his chin towards Potter as the Auror solicitously fusses over the food selections on Pansy’s plate.

Gus gives him a long, level look. “I don’t approve nor disapprove; Auror Potter’s love life is entirely his concern.”

“Tavi said you don’t believe in fairy tales: does that hold true for love?” Blaise immediately regrets opening his fat mouth as Gus’s eyes narrow. _Why did I have to go and say that? She was already suspicious of my intentions. Be cool, man._

“I love my sister… and I loved my parents,” Gus slowly answers. “Tell me, Blaise… do you believe in fairy tales? And… ‘true love’?”. Her topaz eyes never leave his, as she sips from her glass of limeade.

“I– I do, yes,” Blaise stammers. “Well – not so much fairy tales… but love? It’s all around us, Gussie. Familial love, friendship love, companionship love–” he nods at the kitten curled up on Tavi’s legs – “Romantic love.” His dark eyes wander back to Harry and Pansy, somehow still clumsily holding hands as Harry keeps piling more tempting morsels onto Pansy’s plate.

“Have you been ‘in love’ before?” Gus fires back.

“Before–” Blaise stops himself from saying ‘you?’ just in time. _So much for playing it cool. I’m being ridiculous, in any case._

He tries again. “Before I answer that – have you? Been in love, Gussie? Romantic, heady, heart-goes-thumpity-thump love?” he deflects, vaguely aware of Macdolas’s inquisitive green eyes intently tracking their discussion.

“No. Not even close. I don’t have the time for ‘heart-goes-thumpity-thump’ affairs, much less the inclination,” Gus baldly states. “And don’t think I didn’t hear you calling me Gussie again… _Blaisey_ ,” she snips.

Macdolas pauses his energetic consumption of everything within reach to listen for Blaise’s rebuttal.

_I really could do without the nosy, big-eared onlooker._ An impervious Macdolas cocks his head, grinning as Blaise glares at him.

“What are you looking for, though? In a romantic partner? Indulge my curiosity, if you would,” Blaise entreats Gus, in his most charming tones.

“A man who knows how to mind his own business.” Gus leans into Blaise slightly; his pulse accelerates… until he realizes she is moving closer simply to address her sister.

“Tavi, please focus on feeding yourself, and not that kitten. Have you sampled one of the Snickers croissants?”

Luna proffers the platter of crescent-shaped golden pastries. “Do try one, Tavi – they’re scrumptious. All the food is, really. And don’t worry about Boadie, Kreacher fed her a proper cat’s breakfast not long ago,” she assures.

“Kreacher thanks Mistress Lovegood most gratefully for taking the trouble to check over Master Potter’s little Boadicea,” he avers, his mouth working oddly. Blaise barely restrains his surprised chortle when he realizes it is Kreacher’s attempt at a smile. _Yikes_.

“Kreacher, I’m afraid I don’t have the time to look after Boadie; you’ll have to take full responsibility for her,” Harry declares. “We’ve still got a ton of work to do before Operation Acromantula winds up, and I’ve no time to house train a kitten.”

The slightly scary smile on Kreacher’s leathery dial widens. “Kreacher promises to care for little Boadie most diligently, Master Potter. She will be a fine asset to the household; Kreacher gives his word.”

“Very good,” Harry nods. He mutters beneath his breath, “I doubt that kitten’s feet will touch the ground until she she’s too fat to carry; have you seen the crafty sling he’s knotted to keep her close?”.

“Master Kreacher needs someone to love, too,” Macdolas murmurs, staring beadily at Blaise. “Everyone does.” He flicks his cabbage-green peepers to Gus, as Blaise fidgets.

_Uncanny little bastard. Thank goodness Gelsy has never been anything but a paragon of exemplary behaviour._ Blaise peers at the far end of the other table, his complacency about Gelsomina’s sterling deportment shaken by the sight of his house elf ruthlessly yanking at the black ribbon tied about Wirey’s ear. _What the…_

“The Wirey loses to Signorina Gelsy at strip poker and the Challenge of the Peach Schnapps last night, Master Zabini,” Macdolas blithely chirps. “The Wirey’s punishment is a heavy hangover and wearing the hair ribbon for a day.”

Gus’s hearty laugh is rich, deep, and infectious; a thrilling awareness of the witch’s unstudied allure zips up Blaise’s spine and zings along his nerve endings. He grabs for his tumbler of apple juice, mostly to fill his hands and stop his traitorous mouth from blabbing out his increasing fascination with Gus.

_Why did I start spouting that sappy rubbish about true love? She doubtless still believes me to be some sort of desperate Lothario… and probably views my enquiries to be a gambit to ‘romance’ her into bed._ His mouth droops as he ponders how best to assure the thorny young blonde of his honest intentions.

_I_ do _want to be her friend… I guess I’d best hold to that, and not go pushing for more than Gus is willing to give._

Sensing his eyes upon her, Gus throws him a sharp glance; Blaise bequeaths her a wide, slow-forming, radiant smile. Her parted lips, dilating pupils and the red flush creeping up her elegant neck give him hope that his attraction is not completely one-sided. His smile deepens.

He turns to his right as a little hand tweaks the sleeve of his raisin-purple shirt. “Yes, Miss Octavia?”.

“Mr Blaise… thank you very much for inviting us here, and for convincing Gus to let us come. She likes you, you know,” the child discloses solemnly. “She won’t tell you so, herself… but I see her looking at you on the sly.” The child pauses to untangle Boadie’s minute claw from her sleeve.

“Don’t give up on her, please – no matter how grouchy she is. Mrs Green says Gus is secretly ‘clamming for a purely belta gadgie’, but she’s too stubborn to admit she’s lonely… That means she’s yearning for an excellent adult man,” Tavi correctly interprets Blaise’s utter incomprehension at the Geordie slang.

The little girl smiles artlessly at him, her small hands delicately buried in the sable kitten’s silky fur. “Just remember, Mr Blaise: Mrs Green said that if any man hurts either of us, he’ll have to answer to her… Mrs Green worked in a pharmacy most of her life, and she knows which poisons are practically undetectable.”

“But don’t worry, because I’m sure _you’re_ an excellent adult man, Mr Blaise.”

* * *

Theo desultorily nibbles at his peach and goat’s curd mini pizza, enjoying the alternate burst of sweet and salty flavours. His eyes drift around the table, quietly noting all the different little dynamics at play.

Ruibby is at his left, merrily chewing off Kreacher’s pendulous ear about the best ways to remove bloodstains from silk; Kreacher is nodding dutifully at appropriate intervals, though the geriatric elf’s true attention is raptly centred on Tavi and Boadie.

Luna on his right, chatting with Macdolas about her experiments with combinations of friand ingredients. Theo idly wonders what the unholy union of peanuts, liquorice, and gorgonzola cheese turned out like, before deciding he’d rather not know.

Further down the table, Pansy and Harry have progressed to feeding one another selected bites from the multitude of delicious dishes available; a pang of pure longing washes over him as he absorbs the refracted energy of their mutual attraction.

_I’m tired of being alone – no, I’m tired of being lonely,_ he corrects. _I don’t want someone to love me… well, I do… but mostly, I want someone to **love**. Someone I can fuss over, and feed titbits of banana muffin at brunch, and rub her shoulders when she’s had a hard day at work, and run her a warm bath with plenty of frothy bubbles… Someone who wakes me as she whimpers from a bad dream, and I’ll sleepily roll over and spoon her and mumble that she’s alright, she’ll be alright, and that I’m here._

_I just want to be someone’s ‘here’,_ Theo sadly summarizes. _Gods, what a poor fish I’m becoming! Envious of my friends’ happiness… even a bit jealous of Kreacher and his little kitten._ He huffs a faint self-deprecating laugh at his sudden melancholy, jolting as Luna laces her fingers with his.

The petite blonde witch steadily holds his gaze as she imparts, “I understand… I get lonely too, Theo. It was nice last night, wasn’t it? Us all talking together, and falling asleep to the sound of each other’s slow breathing? Everything feels a little less scary, and the dark not so deep, when you have people around you that you trust and love… and you know they love and trust you, too.”

“Yes… you’re right, Luna. As always,” Theo returns her gentle smile. They both look across the table as Gus laughs warmly in reaction to Blaise trying to balance his muesli spoon on his long nose. Blaise’s cross-eyed grin (as he magically affixes it in place instead) is positively blinding.

_There’s another heating romance… though Gus Gilmont would likely saw off Blaise’s thumbs with her butter knife if he tried to hand feed her anything,_ Theo observes. He frowns as he notes Tavi looking up fondly at Zabini, who in turn is staring worshipfully at Gus.

“Luna? Do you think… do you think Blaise knows what he’s doing? With the Gilmonts, I mean.” Theo motions to the scenario in play.

“Oh no, not at all,” Luna immediately answers. “Are you worried for him, or Gus and Tavi, Theo?”.

“I’m concerned for all of them, actually,” Theo slowly replies. “Do me a favour, Luna? Ask the girls to sit at the other table, for a bit, please? I think we might need to have a chat with Blaise… make sure he understands exactly what he’s about.”

“Blaise has a good heart, Theo: he’d never purposefully hurt them,” Luna points out. “I’m happy to help, if you think it necessary.”

“I do. Thanks, Luna.” He steeples his hands before his chin as Luna pops up from her seat, managing to gather everyone’s attention without raising her melodious voice.

“Would everyone mind changing tables for a little while, please? Males on this one, and females on the other? And perhaps our lovely elves might like to show Tavi and Boadie some clever elfish magic, by the bird bath?” Luna indicates the far corner of the back garden. “Theo has some special secret men’s business to discuss.”

A throng of curious eyes of many sizes, shapes, and hues swing his way. _Thanks, Luna._ Theo fights the impulse to hunch below the table.

“Right. Um – it’s about… a project I’m working on,” he weakly improvises.

“If it’s a cubbyhouse up a tree with a sign on the door stating, ‘No Girls Allowed’ – we’ve already built one, Theo,” Draco twits. “It might even still be there, if you want to check it out at the Manor, later.”

_Bloody smart-mouthed Malfoy_. Theo flips him the bird behind his back, careful not to let Tavi see. The little girl eagerly scrambles from her seat, cradling the kitten as Ruibby holds her free hand. They move with the other elves to sit in a circle on the thick grass.

A few puzzled shrugs, before everyone begins rising and moving about. Bernard Granger is the first to jump ship, after bending his wife Jane over his arm and dipping her low, planting a rollicking kiss on her smiling lips (that rivals even Draco and Hermione’s constant PDAs for intensity).

Barney rubs together his big paws excitedly. “Are we planning to roast Draco? You know, like one of those comedy specials where all of his friends and family sit at a fancy dinner and thoroughly humiliate and ridicule him? I’m in,” his bass voice rumbles.

“Thanks, Bernard,” Draco sardonically remarks. “I hate to disappoint you, but I doubt Theo is planning a roast.”

“If it is a lump on the testicles you vish to discuss – go straight to the Healer,” Viktor worriedly advises. “I haff teammate on Vratsa Vipers who ignore until it is size of apricot – he almost lose the acorn.”

“It’s ‘nut’, Viktor – and my testicles are healthy, thanks!” Theo belatedly casts a hasty ‘Muffliato’ around their table as the girls look over, laughing fit to kill at his exasperated declaration. He curses his easily-blushing cheeks.

“Seriously, mate – don’t be ashamed of talking about testicular wellness,” Harry chimes in. “Cancer of the testes is more prevalent in younger men than older ones, you know.”

_Salazar’s sweet strawberry shortcake!_ “Stop. Talking. About. My. Balls,” Theo snaps, teeth gritted. “I want to have a word with Blaise – about the Gilmonts.”

Blaise’s amused expression instantly disappears, replaced by wariness. “A word about what, exactly?”

“How about how you’ve fallen for them both like a troll stepping into a bog, Blaise the Praised?” Draco throws his hat in the ring. “You’re gaga for Gus – and you’re acting like Tavi’s big brother already.”

“What are you hoping for in the long run, Blaise? You have to understand, Gus isn’t like your usual witches,” Theo speaks earnestly. “I don’t know her history, but it’s clear that she’s parenting Tavi – and on her own, I’m guessing.”

“It’s not my place to tell you what happened to them – and it’s not your place to take me to task for befriending their family, OK?” Blaise sullenly retorts. “You’re all acting like I have some overarching, nefarious scheme in mind – thanks a lot, guys. I’m simply trying to be a good friend to them.”

“Listen, Zucchini – I don’t know you, but I do know that you can’t shoplift the Pootie from a single mother,” Bernard admonishes, spreading his hands wide as everyone bar Harry reacts with bemusement.

“Come on – ‘show me the money!’,” Barney shakes his head in wonderment. “’Jerry Maguire’ – it’s a modern classic!”.

“It’s ‘Zabini’, not ‘Zucchini’, and I’ve no idea to what you’re referring, Mr Granger,” Blaise clips out, jumping up from his seat. “I do know I don’t care for the sound of that ‘Pootie’ idiom,” he growls, morphing from tame tabby to angry leopard in a microsecond.

“Easy, big guy,” Bernard takes a prudent step in reverse. “All it means is – you have to act with pure intent when it comes to single mums and their kids; you can’t toy with children’s affections – especially not when they’re starving for role models.”

“I don’t toy with anyone’s affections! I don’t… do I?!” Blaise’s volume drops; he is visibly shocked by the idea.

“Blaise… I know you’re upfront with the witches you date – about not wanting anything serious – but often, they catch feelings for you,” Theo tries to convey his point as gently as possible. “And when they do… you’re not always as… sensitive about the situation, as you could be.”

“What the hell does that mean? I send them a nice bunch of flowers and a pretty piece of jewellery and wish them well – what’s wrong with that?” Blaise argues.

“They’re disposable and interchangeable, that’s the problem,” Draco states. “You can’t treat Gus like that – and you especially can’t insert yourself into Tavi’s life, only to disappear in a puff of smoke when shit gets too real.”

“Oh, and what the fuck would you know about it, Draco? You did a fine job of vanishing on us when your ‘shit got too real’,” Blaise counters, his black eyes furious and agitated.

“Yeah – and I regret that immensely – which is why I’m trying to help you out here, mate,” Draco calmly replies. “Settle the fuck down and remember that we all care about you; well, Bernard, Harry, and Viktor might not, but Theo and I do… and we don’t want to see you get hurt, either.”

“I care – Blaise is my friend,” Viktor nods.

“And mine,” Harry firmly avers.

“Us blokes should stick together, Zu– Zabini,” Bernard maintains. “We’re all agreed that our women are much smarter and stronger than us – which is why we need to go hive-mind sometimes, to make sure we can keep up with them.”

_Not entirely certain what Hermione’s oddball dad is on about… but OK._ Theo presses his case one final time.

“Blaise, you’ve a heart as big as the sun – but you have to be careful with that little girl, alright? You can’t send her a pretty posy and a diamond brooch if it all goes pear-shaped with Gus… and you can break a child’s heart so easily. Just… just remember that, please.”

A beat of silence; Blaise gives a fulminating look to the table at large, before stalking over to sit with Tavi and the elves. Macdolas immediately zooms a bright, magicked butterfly to perch atop Zabini’s close-cropped head. Tavi giggles vivaciously at the risible sight; Blaise’s brooding expression clears as he smiles down at the happy child. He pulls a series of comical faces as he pretends to be terrified of butterflies.

“Well, we tried,” Bernard comments, scratching at his gingery beard. “I hope – for that darling little girl’s sake – that he listens.’

“Now – are we one hundred percent positive Draco doesn’t deserve a solid roasting? I’d be delighted to emcee, I’ve had quite a bit of community theatre experience. In fact, my characterization of Captain Hook in last year’s ‘A Christmas Peter Pan’ was widely lauded as ‘peculiarly boisterous’,” Bernard brags. “It’s all in the hook work – you figure that out quickly, let me tell you.” He makes a few wild waving gestures with an imaginary curved prong, narrowly missing socking Harry in the nose.

“I haff an interest in attending this roast,” Viktor contributes. “I could help you with the joke-making, Mr Bernard?”.

“Just Bernard – and that’s the spirit, Viktor,” Barney clamps an approving hand onto Krum’s broad shoulder. “Good gracious – what do you snack on, lad? Roofing screws?”.

Theo tunes out the good-natured banter as the other men exchange mild insults and propositions of ridicule.

_I hope we didn’t overdo our caution; Blaise was as steamed as I’ve ever seen him, once he realized what we were trying to tell him._

_He doesn’t understand, though… he’s in just as much danger of having his generous heart broken… which isn’t something he’ll be able to play the clown about,_ Theo frets.

_And that’s the last thing I want, for my friend… for_ any _of my friends,_ he vows.

* * *

Luna looks on with a small smile playing around her lips as Pansy starts to wind up. _She needs this group more than ever… after what happened last night._

“Soooo… Ginny-evra… how was it? Spill the beans, we’re all buddies here,” Pansy prompts, before chomping into a cheese-loaded cracker. “How many times did the Krum train pass through Central Station, huh? I’m guessing three or four circuits, at least – judging by your general air of smug satisfaction, and the glowing sex flush.”

“Pansy! Little pitchers have big ears,” Hermione reproves, jerking her head towards the elf coterie in the corner.

“Chillax, Pollyanna – I used a euphemism, didn’t I? Besides, the kid wouldn’t notice if I screamed out ‘Is Viktor’s dick as long as his wand?’, in any case – she’s utterly besotted with the puckish pack,” Pansy coolly replies.

“I invoked a ‘Muffliato’ when I sat down, I thought we’d likely start conversing about genitals and sex,” Luna imparts. “No need to blush, Hermione: the Sacred Feminine is strong, within our circle.”

“Don’t worry about discussing intercourse in front of me, dear; I’m well aware my son is a sexual being,” Narcissa assures. “He takes after his father in many respects.”

“That’s– that’s more than I wanted to know, Narcissa,” Hermione sputters, as Jane bursts into mirth. “Can we focus back on Ginny and Viktor, please?”.

“ _Weeeeell_ … I’m not one to kiss-and-tell,” Ginny rolls an apple pancake into a tight cylinder, before daubing a large splotch of whipped cream on one end. She holds it up for critical inspection, grinning mischievously. “Let’s just say: the wand chooses the witch… and the witch is very, very pleased with the fit,” she bites into the pancake with a quick gnash of white teeth, smearing cream all over her mouth.

Pansy almost chokes on her cheesy cracker as she shrieks with laughter; even Gus is chuckling helplessly at the blue joke.

“You guys are _filthy_ ,” Gus snickers, as Ginny brazenly dips the remaining pancake roll back into the cream dish. “Nella would love – never mind,” she breaks off.

“Is Nella Mrs Green, Gus?” Luna serenely enquires. “Tavi mentioned her when I was checking over Boadie; she told me Mrs Green would love to have a cat; but it’s not allowed, where you live.”

“Yeah… Mrs Green is our neighbour, she looks after Tavi for me – well, she’s our family, now,” Gus reveals. “Our parents – they died. Five years ago.” Suddenly conscious of her audience, the Auror busies herself with selecting a roast pumpkin and feta tartlet.

“Will Tavi start at Hogwarts this September, Gus?” Hermione asks. “She’s extremely intelligent, and eager to learn; you’ve done a wonderful job raising her,” she praises sincerely.

“I think– I hope, she’ll get her letter this year… Tavi has mild cerebral palsy, and I don’t know if Hogwarts will consider it an insurmountable boundary to her magical education,” Gus tells the group, laying down her uneaten pastry. Her knuckles whiten on the tabletop as she expounds, “Being overlooked will just about destroy her… all Tavi’s ever wanted is to be a fully-qualified witch.”

“Have you spoken to Professor McGonagall about it?” Hermione queries, shifting straight into Very Important Lawyer Mode (as Luna likes to think of her friend’s sharply professional attitude).

Gus shakes her head choppily. “No – I’ve been too bloody chicken to ask.”

“I’m certain Minerva will be sympathetic to Tavi’s special needs – she’s a meticulously fair person, and a wonderfully inclusive educator. I’ll make an appointment for us to speak with her about it, if you’ll allow me to act on your behalf,” Hermione continues.

“Look, I wasn’t begging for help or anything – it’s fine, I can deal with it,” Gus protests uneasily.

“Of course you’re not begging – but we’re your friends now; and friends help each other out,” Hermione brooks no argument. “I’ll owl Minerva first thing Monday, to set up an appointment. It’s the least I can do, after everything you’ve done for us.”

Luna has to reach up quite a bit to reassuringly squeeze Gus’s upper arm, such is the height difference between the two Ravenclaws. “There’s little use opposing Hermione once she has a bee in her bonnet, Gus – you’d best ‘jus’ let her have her head and see where she runs ter’, as Hagrid likes to say. We’re on your side; you and Tavi will be fine, you’ll see.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Gus whispers. “Why are you being so nice to us? I don’t understand,” she mumbles.

_Poor thing… she’s clearly unused to the simplest human kindnesses._ Luna pats Gus’s arm the same way she would calm a restless Thestral. “We’ve bonded with you, Gus; you and Tavi are family, now. Your problems are our problems, you see.”

Forestalling Gus’s objection, Luna waves a languid hand at Tavi, who is helping to carefully put the now-sleeping kitten into Kreacher’s thickly-lined knotted sling. As they watch, Kreacher produces a Galleon from behind the child’s ear, presenting it to her with a small flourish and a singular smile.

“Look – Kreacher used to despise Harry, and all Muggle-borns… but after being shown a little kindness and empathy, he’s shucked aside the bigotry of a lifetime and refashioned a happier life for himself, Gus. See how he’s treating your little sister with the utmost care and attention? Should you deprive yourselves of the special connections that friendship brings, because you’re so used to being independent?” Luna hopes her words have done enough to penetrate Gus’s protective shell.

“I… um… I guess you’re right, Luna. Thank you… thank you all.” Gus bites into the set-aside tart and chews determinedly.

_Probably so she doesn’t have to say anything else,_ Luna concludes. _Or to stave off any emotional crying… though I reckon Gus Gilmont hasn’t allowed herself the luxury of a good cry in a very long time._

“Hermione, is someone knocking at the front door?” Luna lifts the silencing charm, having sensed a faint rhythmic thud. “No, don’t get up – I’d like to stretch my legs. I’ll see to it. Gus can come with me,” she leads away the taller witch.

“I guessed you might like to escape being the centre of attention for a few minutes,” Luna communicates to Gus, in a low whisper. “I’m used to people staring at me, but I think you don’t care for it overmuch.”

“You can say that again, sister,” Gus replies, with feeling. “I’d rather shovel a mountain of Hippogriff crap than be in the spotlight, that’s for sure.”

Reaching the door, Luna swings it open; she starts in surprise at the visitor standing nervously on the stoop.

“Hello, Luna… erm, may I speak with Hermione, please? Or– or Harry, or Pansy? If – if they’re here, I mean.”

“Hullo, Ron. Are they expecting you?” Luna tranquilly enquires. _He looks as though he hasn’t slept a wink since the Gala… his anguish is nearly palpable. The poor egg._

“No– no, not at all. I went around to ask your dad for Malfoy’s address… he told me you were coming to brunch, so I figured I’d try my luck. I’m not here to cause any trouble – I promise, Luna. I had to tell your dad why I wanted the address so badly– he wouldn’t give it to me, otherwise.” Ron hugs his arms to his chest, his shoulders sagging.

“Never mind– I don’t want to bother them, or ruin your get-together… I’ll write some letters, and maybe try again another day,” he begins to turn away dejectedly.

“I believe you, Ronald. Please come in; I can’t speak for the others, but I’m willing to hear whatever you’ve come to say.” Slipping her hand into Ron’s clammy one, she leads him into the hallway.

“Would you mind waiting here, with Gus? She won’t bother you – she’s taking a short breather from the chaotic good energy of the party,” Luna grins.

“I’ll go fetch Hermione… and don’t worry, Ron. Everyone makes mistakes, you know. It’s learning, and growing from them… that’s what counts, in the end.”

“Thanks, Luna.”

She senses Ron’s sad eyes following her, as she swiftly patters back to the rear garden.

_I do hope he can find some peace… for everyone’s sake._

* * *


	67. The Granger-Malfoy Townhouse Brunch: Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my talented and generous beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5.  
> Happy Birthday, dearest! Your loyalty, support, and friendship is priceless, and I hope you have a wonderful day tomorrow. You deserve all the love and happiness the world has to offer. Thank you so much for being my best friend, creative Muse, and hyperfixated mutual. Love you! Also, thank you for coining 'Ron's Apology Tour'.😍🥰😍🥰😍
> 
> Hello guys... the brunch keeps rolling! I think the next chapter will conclude it, though. Ron's grovelling takes up a bit of space. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your clever ideas and musings about the different interactions. 
> 
> Special thanks to @sweeteangel1 for expertly checking the French, and @Asoreleks for the brilliant idea of Mac's Extendable Wardrobe (for all his crazy costumes and weapon obsessions!).
> 
> I promise this brunch won't drag on for more than another chapter (crosses fingers behind back). 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading.
> 
> xoxo VJ

**_**Trigger warning: angst, self-loathing, and hard truths**_ **

**__ **

_Saturday 23 March 2003: PM_

Ron alternates between staring at the polished wooden floor of Malfoy’s townhouse, and looking at the coat rack beside the staircase… anything to keep from making eye contact with the tall blonde Auror standing silently next to the door. He decides to stick with tracing the patterns in the wood grain when he realizes that he recognizes the expensive black woollen pea coat hanging from the first peg on the rack: Hermione wore it to dinner at Grimmauld Place, last month.

 _And I had a go at her for seeing someone new… I acted like an immature, green-eyed berk. As if I had any claim on her, after royally fucking up our romantic relationship… not to mention our friendship._ He knuckles at his sore eyes until black spots dance across the inside of his eyelids.

“Are you about to freak out?” Gus Gilmont addresses him coolly. “Sit against the wall, put your head down, and focus on your breathing. And leave your eyes alone – if they get any redder, they’ll fall out.”

Her detached, unsympathetic advice effectively snaps him out of the incipient panic attack. Ron shuffles up against the wall, letting his hands fall stiffly to his sides.

“Sorry – I’m alright. I mean, I’m not about to wig out. I’m just– never mind.” He studies the flooring again.

“You’ll feel better, once you get it off your chest. Confession’s good for the soul, and all that,” Gus dryly remarks. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Yeah… I hope so.” They lapse back into awkward silence.

“Are there… are there a lot of people here? For brunch, I mean,” Ron falters as Gilmont fixes him with a shrewd glance.

“Worried they’ll gather pitchforks and form a mob? Relax, I’m joking,” Gus sighs, as Ron blenches. “There are fourteen humans, five elves, and one kitten currently in residence, including Hermione’s parents, and Draco’s mother. And yes, Harry and Pansy are both here… plus your sister, and her new boyfriend.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks,” Ron’s fortitude takes a nose-dive upon hearing of the attendees. _Don’t be such a gutless wonder – you **have** to do this. What did Ginny say, last night? ‘I hope this is your true rock bottom’? She was right, it _is _… and I have to dig my own way out of this mess._ He agitatedly chews at the hang nail on his right thumb, making it bleed anew.

“Here they come,” Gus mutters, as rapid footsteps approach from the kitchen. “Look sharp, Weasley – you’re about to go live in front of a studio audience. I hope you’re ready,” she cryptically states, stepping slightly in front of Ron.

Malfoy is barrelling in the lead, Hermione close behind; followed by Harry, Pansy, Luna, Ginny, and Viktor. Swallowing hard, Ron steels himself for the ordeal ahead.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Weasley – you dare to come to our home, after what you did last night!? Move aside, Gus – I’m going to flatten this brazen prick,” Malfoy snarls, rage emanating off him in near-tangible waves.

“Draco – please, let Ron speak. Luna said he promised he’s not here to cause any trouble… I think it must be terribly important, for him to risk your wrath,” Hermione slips her arms around Malfoy in a calming hug. “Look at him, _mon coeur_ – he’s devastated.”

“So he fucking should be,” Malfoy growls. His eyes are pure ice as he clips, “We’ll do this in the lounge, with the door closed. Weasley: If you say or do anything – ANYTHING – that I deem inflammatory or aggressive, I’ll knock you into next week.”

“Fair enough,” Ron nods jerkily. “Erm...thanks, Auror Gilmont. I’ll be alright.”

Gus shrugs. “Your call. I’d like to hear whatever it is you’ve come here to say – but it’s not imperative.”

“Whatever – let’s get this over with,” Draco glacially commands.

The small group sombrely files into the living room. Draco waits until everyone except Ron is seated on the lounge or armchairs, before firmly closing the door. He glares impatiently and makes a ‘wind-up’ gesture.

 _Maybe this wasn’t my greatest idea – ah, fuck it. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon._ Ron slips his hands into his trouser pockets and begins to speak, directing his gaze to a spot on the back wall of white bookcases.

“I want to apologize – unreservedly, to all of you – for my selfish, thoughtless, and inexcusable behaviour last night... well, not just last night, but for years. When Ginny told me what happened to Hermione and Pansy – Cormac’s foul schemes – I– I was appalled. I _am_ appalled... by myself, and my cruel, petty motivations,” Ron husks, forcing himself to look at both the women he’s recently wronged.

Hermione appears sorrowful, but composed; Pansy’s face is a blank, cool mask. Ron forges on, trying to not rush his speech.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness or attempting to excuse my behaviour. I’ve been an utter arse... and I’m disgusted with myself, that it took me this long to see how immature and hurtful I’ve been. I’d like to– I'd like to address my failings, individually... if you don’t mind hearing me out a little longer,” he entreats.

“I’m listening, Ron.” Hermione doesn’t smile, but her tiny nod is reassuring, nevertheless. Malfoy sourly mutters something incomprehensible as he stands behind her, his thumbs caressing Hermione’s neck in soothing circles.

“Hermione, I am so sorry for treating you unkindly… ever since we were kids. I took you for granted constantly, and I never appreciated just how awesome you are... I was disrespectful and callous. I’m really sorry.”

“Pansy, I apologize for deliberately embarrassing you in public last night – I deeply regret that my nastiness provided the opportunity for Cormac to hurt you. I never thought– but that’s my problem, not considering the consequences of my actions. I am truly sorry for meanly trying to humiliate you at the ball – the shame is all mine.”

“Harry... you’ve forgiven me my childish jealousy and poor decisions for years – and you shouldn’t have. I’ve been a bad friend, and I wanted to hurt you last night, too.” Ron chokes out a ragged breath. “I hated seeing you with Pansy, even though she’d given me no reason to think I ever had a chance with her. I’m sorry, mate.”

Harry stares at him stonily. Ron gulps, turning to Luna.

“Luna, I’m sorry I used to call you ‘Looney’. You’re really smart and perceptive, and way too nice to people who’ve been awful to you. I don’t deserve your friendship, but I’m extremely grateful for it.”

“That’s OK, Ronald. I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” Luna quietly replies.

Ron closes his smarting eyes, hoping he hasn’t made the situation worse. His mother’s severe words from their acidic argument early this morning echo through his tired brain.

“You can’t keep blaming me and your father for your shortcomings, Ronald Bilius Weasley – we made mistakes... what parent hasn’t?... but you’re an adult now. It’s time you started acting like one and stop lashing out when you don’t get what you want, my boy,” the disappointment on his mother’s face had cut deeper than her scathing words.

“How would you have lived with yourself, knowing you’d been the catalyst for that devil McLaggen hurting Hermione, and the Parkinson girl?! You’re incredibly lucky they saved themselves, Ronald. I don’t know what else to say to you, truly,” Molly had shaken her head in bitter frustration.

“Mum – I’m moving out,” Ron had blurted. “You’re right – I’m not arguing the point – but living here isn’t helping. Look, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate everything you do for me – far from it – but I can’t learn how to do things for myself if you keep doing them for me, can I?” he’d contested.

“If that’s what you want, Ronald – we'll not stand in your way.” Back rigid, Molly had busied herself preparing another cuppa, her back shaking slightly. “Remember that you’re our son, and you’re always welcome here.”

 _Aaaaand I’ve made my mother cry... again._ Feeling like the lowest of heels, Ron had blundered to the bench and folded his parent in a clumsy hug. “I’m sorry for not measuring up, Mum.”

“Oh, Ronald! It’s never been a competition, love!”.

 _Didn’t feel that way, sometimes._ Deciding against sharing that unpopular sentiment, Ron had disengaged from the embrace. Pacing out to the garden, he’d spent a long hour thinking about the muddled fiasco he’d made of his life.

Now, he straightens his spine as he glances about the room. _Time to grin and bear the backlash, Ronniekins._

“What’s brought this on, Weasley? Are we expected to believe you woke up this morning and miraculously decided to embark upon some half-arsed Grand Apology Tour?” Draco snipes. “Redemption isn’t achieved with a few platitudes and piteous tears, you know.”

“Yeah... yeah, I know. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. If you want to hit me, I won’t retaliate.” Ron offers a weak grin. “Go on, Malfoy – you'll feel better, I reckon.”

“Draco’s not going to strike you, are you, _mon chéri_?” Hermione murmurs, leaning her head against Malfoy’s twitching hand. “Ron, I appreciate your courage, in coming here today; I know you’re not seeking forgiveness... but consider mine given. You’re not responsible for Cormac McLaggen being an evil scumbag, you know.”

“It _is_ my fault for creating the drama that led to the kidnapping, Hermione,” Ron doggedly rebuts. “I wanted to mess up the night – and mess it up, I did. I’m sorry.”

Pansy sniffs. “You _were_ a puerile, spiteful dickhead last night, Weasley – but Pollyanna’s correct: the abduction, and revolting roofie plot is all on Cormac, and Flint. I accept your apology, but forgiveness isn’t something I’m ready to grant you. That’s all I want to say to you.”

Nodding silently, Ron lifts his sore, swollen eyes to Harry.

“I appreciate that you’ve comprehended how badly you fucked up last night, Ron... I know this is an important moment for you, and I can see how sincere you are in wanting to change,” Harry monotonously affirms. He pauses, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I realize that you never intended to place Pansy and Hermione in danger... but you’ve admitted you wanted to hurt Pansy and upset me. I’m struggling with moving past that, honestly. You say you care about me – that you care about Hermione – but when push comes to shove, you disregard our feelings in favour of your own motivations or impulsive emotional reactions.”

Harry restively tunnels his fingers through his black mop, scratching at his scalp.

“We’ve briefly touched on it before... but it still rankles. _You left us,_ Ron. When we were hunting Horcruxes, and that wretched necklace was wearing us all down – you ran. I know, I _know_ you immediately regretted it, and you tried to get back to us almost straightaway... but you still left, mate.”

Blinking hard, Ron scrubs at his hot cheeks as tears well in his aqua eyes. _I did leave – I hate myself for it – I’ll always regret it._ Hunching his shoulders, he listens to the rest of Harry’s response. Every word smites like a hammer blow.

“I don’t trust you anymore, Ron. I love you like a brother, and your friendship has been integral to my existence for the last twelve years… but I can’t continue to shrug my shoulders and excuse your self-absorbed, thoughtless, and downright ugly behaviour.”

Curving his arm protectively around Pansy, Harry adds, “If our friendship is to survive… we need a break from each other, Ron. I won’t tolerate you taking out your frustrations and inadequacies on me, or the people I care for. Good luck, mate.”

 _It’s better than I’d hoped for – but Merlin, it stings._ Ron acknowledges Harry’s decision with a convulsive dip of his head, squinching closed his eyes. He flinches as a pair of slender arms encircle him.

“Hey – it’s just me,” Ginny says gently. “I’m proud of you, Ron. It’ll get easier from here – you’ll see.”

He allows himself the brief comfort of her sisterly hug, before slowly withdrawing. “I hope so, Gin. I’m sorry I haven’t been the best big brother to you. I’m going to be a better sibling – and a better person,” he vows determinedly, voice hoarse.

“Give yourself some time, Ron. I believe in you,” Ginny pats his back affectionately. “Did you get into it with Mum, when you got home?”.

“Yeah – she was beside herself when I told her what happened,” Ron divulges. “She told me I was a disgrace to the name Weasley.”

“Oh, Ron… that’s unfair. Mum’s always been too hard on you,” Ginny remarks sorrowfully. “Did you make peace, in the end?”.

“Sort of – I told her I was moving out. As soon as I find a place, I’ll leave.”

“Let’s move out together – I’m a rubbish cook, but I do know how to do laundry,” Ginny impulsively offers. “If we split the rent, we should be able to afford somewhere decent, yeah?” she offers.

“You don’t have to do that for me, Gin – I’ll be OK,” Ron demurs.

“Nah – I want to. I need to spread my wings too, remember?”. Leaning forward, she whispers in his ear, “I can’t really bring home Viktor to the Burrow, hmmm? Imagine the look on Mum’s face! Nope – you’ve got yourself a flatmate, brother o’ mine,” she winks.

“Thanks, Ginny,” Ron rasps. He peers about the room; everyone’s eyes are upon him, with varying degrees of cynosure. Hermione is watching him sadly, a tremulous smile upon her lips; Malfoy still looks as if he’d enjoy ripping off Ron’s head from his shoulders with his bare hands. Viktor’s expression is contemplative, while Gus remains impassive. Harry’s emerald eyes are heavy and troubled; Pansy stares back at him disdainfully.

“I appreciate your time, and patience. I’m sorry I interrupted your gathering; thank you for hearing me out.” Ron moves quickly for the door. His freckled fingers pause on the handle as Hermione speaks.

“You’re stronger than you think, Ron – you always have been,” she softly attests. “We’ll be here… when you’re ready.”

Choking back his involuntary sob at Hermione’s kindness, Ron nods a final time and makes his escape, half-blinded by tears. It isn’t until he reaches a bus stop shelter that he fully succumbs to his topsy-turvy emotions, ignoring the curious regard of passers-by as he sobs brokenly on the wooden seat.

_Fuck, I’m a mess. They went easy on me, all things considered… but I’m bloody terrified I’ve cocked things up too badly to ever repair our fractured friendships._

Ron rests his heavy head in his trembling hands, wishing he had a Time-Turner.

_But even if I did, no magical device in the universe is going to fix my problems. I’m the only person who can do that…._

_I will, this time. I swear it._

* * *

Standing at the townhouse’s front door, Draco glowers at the Weasel’s back until the redheaded git barrels around the corner and disappears from sight. _Keep walking, cockhead. You’re damned lucky my girl is an angel, with a heart large enough to somehow forgive your constant fuckwittery. Trou du cul._

He relaxes his tensed stance when Hermione slips her arm around his waist.

“Thank you, Draco… for letting Ron speak. He’s a dear friend, and a good person… he’s saved my life more than once. I know you have an especial antipathy for him, but I think you’d like him, if you ever gave him a chance.”

Hermione quietly chortles at Draco’s appalled expression. “You should see your face… never mind, I’m not suggesting you join him and Harry for drinks on a Friday evening. Perhaps… after Ron gets his act together…” Hermione smiles wistfully.

“You mean ‘if’ he gets his act together; I remain unconvinced. The proof is in the pudding – and Weasley’s blancmange is yet to set, Granger. You’re too soft with him,” Draco utters the words more harshly than he’d intended, regretting his admonition immediately as Hermione steps back a pace.

“You’re too hard on him. He’s not had it easy – living in the shadow of his family, and Harry’s fame. As much as I love Molly, she’s not always treated her children with true impartiality. Moving out of the Burrow is a clever, courageous decision on Ron’s part.” Hermione’s mouth is set in a stubborn line, her brows drawn together.

Managing to douse the wild flare of raging jealousy at her loyal defence of her ex-boyfriend, Draco cobbles together his composure with no small effort. He lightly rests his hands on Hermione’s hips, gazing deeply into her beautiful, mulish, chocolate brown eyes.

“I’m willing to give Weasley the benefit of the doubt, for your sake,” he keeps his tone unemotional. “It’s difficult for me to forgive the part he played in last night’s horror, though; and the hurt he’s inflicted upon you in the past. I know more of your history than you think, _ma petite_.” Draco kisses her forehead, vastly relieved when Hermione submits to his tentative hug.

“May I ask what you meant by that?” her curious question is muffled against his chest.

“Later, sweetheart. I’ve something else I’d like to discuss,” Draco deflects.

“I’d like to speak to you about something, too – but please, you go first. No, I insist,” Hermione urges.

Drawing a calming breath, Draco exhales slowly before he answers. “Hermione, would you mind if I attended an AA meeting, this evening? I’d much prefer to spend the night cuddling up to you in our home; but after last night… I need to touch base with Ewan, and spend some time in group. I– I craved a drink a few times – I didn’t touch a drop – but the urge… the stress triggered me, and I want to ensure I don’t relapse,” he confesses.

“Oh, Draco – of course I don’t mind – please, you never need ask my permission. Would you like me to come with you? You have my unqualified support – whatever you need, I am here,” Hermione closes the small gap between their bodies, hugging him fiercely. “Please tell me how I can help, _mon amour_.”

 ** _Please, never stop loving me._** Draco buries his face in her petal-soft, springy curls, revelling in their closeness. _I mustn’t hug her too tight – I wish I never had to let her go._

 ** _I never will. You’re mine now, Draco._ _My brave, beautiful man._** Hermione squeezes him back with surprising force. The special little moment stretches into a minute of silent intimacy.

“I’d prefer to go alone, for now; not that I don’t wish for you to be involved, but I’m feeling a bit raw at present, and I’d rather introduce you to Ewan when I’m not so unsettled,” Draco says aloud, pleased when Hermione nods understandingly.

“I’ll miss you; but it will make your homecoming all the sweeter,” she kisses the hollow of his pale throat delicately. “I’m going to schedule a counselling session with Dr Rica as soon as I can; I’m still ebullient that the roofie drama is essentially resolved, but I know I’m going to be at emotional sixes and sevens for a while yet.”

“Excellent: I was going to suggest it, but you’ve beaten me to it, as usual,” Draco grins. “Plus… I was ravished by a brazen temptress this morning, which played dreadful havoc with my memory,” he tickles at her ribs playfully.

“Desist, please – a temptress, you say? _Ravished_ , even?! You poor, helpless, puling creature,” Hermione scoffs, pinching his bum as she giggles.

“Yes, she was quite the hussy. I suffered through her bold ministrations as best I could,” Draco sighs. “Ow! Sheathe your claws, _ma petite lionne…_ Stop it, stop it – you have something you wish to tell me, yes?” he reminds.

Hermione ceases her sportive assault, bending her head as she captures his fingers, nervously playing with them.

“Feel free to tell me it’s a poor idea – or that it’s too soon to formalize – well, not formalize, so much as categorize – or specify, I suppose you could apply any of those terms with equal accuracy…” she broods.

“Spit it out, before you fall down a linguistic rabbit hole,” Draco shakes his head with indulgent pride.

Raising her head, Hermione exhales sharply. “OK… Would you be averse to the idea of me subletting my apartment to Ron and Ginny?” the query hastily tumbles from her lips.

“Sorry – I’m getting ahead of myself – maybe you’d prefer me to move back to Bexley, now the danger has passed – I don’t mean to presume, you probably want your space – damn, I shouldn’t have said anything –” She drops his fingers, turbulently flapping her hands in an unco-ordinated gesture of uncertainty and rue.

“ _You’re not going anywhere_. I forbid it.” Draco shakes his head ferociously, gathering his flustered lover flush against his lean body. She stands passively in his possessive hold, eyes huge in her worried face.

“This is your home – here, with me – or at Hogwarts – you live with me now, Hermione Jean Granger. You can lease your old apartment to squirrels, for all I care – Weasels, moles, shrews, hedgehogs – whichever rodents you wish. You live with me, and I shan’t listen to any more of your nonsense,” he barks sternly.

“You… you really mean that? You want me to stay?” The fact that Hermione still appears uncertain of how integral she is to his existence is insanely infuriating.

“Of course I bloody want you to stay! I spent two nights apart from you recently and it felt like two sodding years – this is _your_ home, it’s _our_ home, and you’ll have the very devil of a time shaking me loose; don’t bother to try, I shan’t countenance it,” Draco growls, pausing his tirade to pepper indignant smooches over Hermione’s cheeks and jawline, nipping a little viciously at her neck as she gasps.

“My genius, adorable, insecure, silly little witch – I was planning on telling you this tomorrow (when our home wasn’t inundated with two score of our nearest and dearest), but I’ll inform you now: the townhouse is already in both our names. No strings attached… it’s as much yours as it is mine, do you understand? Nod once for yes,” he instructs.

Hermione slowly complies, her stunning eyes filling with tears faster than he can kiss them away. “Draco – you didn’t have to do that – but I love that you did,” she sobs, tightly winding her arms around his neck. “You– you really want me– you really love me, don’t you?” she whimpers.

“Love you?! The single verb is insufficient to express the depth of my feelings for you, Hermione. I worship you, I adore you, I honour and admire you… I love you more than Macdolas loves food, and that’s saying something,” Draco includes a little levity to cover his own trembles.

“I love you–” _kiss_ – “ _Je t’aime_ –” _kiss_ – “ _Te quiero_ –” with this kiss, Hermione cups his nape and eagerly reciprocates.

“I didn’t… know… you spoke… Spanish,” she pants, between heated lip-locks.

“I’ll learn how to say, ‘I love you’ in all the languages of the world, if you promise to never tire of hearing the phrase,” Draco pledges, fervidly groping at her pear-shaped bum (delectably defined by her blue jeans) and nudging her against the side of the still-ajar door. In response, Hermione snakes her right leg up his calf, salaciously rubbing up and down the back of his limb in slow passes.

“Are you convinced… of your foolishness… in thinking… I’d ever want you to move out?” Draco sucks a love bite into Hermione’s collarbone, nosing aside the collar of her teal cotton shirt.

“Yes, yes! Maybe… we should… go upstairs,” Hermione squeaks as Draco nuzzles the other side of her throat.

“Macdolas reminds Master Malfoy and Her Golden Grace that a multitude of revered guests yet occupy the back garden,” the judgemental sprite chirps from a few feet away.

 _Whomever taught the rascally rotter his entrance timing needs a good kick up the arse._ Draco reluctantly lifts his head from the upper swell of Hermione’s pretty breast. He rearranges her shirt front before he turns to face their oh-so-helpful Scottish butler… and his companions.

Blaise Zabini is holding his big mitts over Tavi’s eyes; the child giggles as he drawls, “Look away, Miss Octavia – Lord Malfoy and the soon-to-be-Lady Malfoy are exhibiting what _not_ to do when you are hosting a party.”

“Pi– Piddle sticks,” Draco hastily revises his instinctive rude retort at Zabini’s razzing, choosing to ignore the ‘Lady Malfoy’ gibe. “We were just about to return to the party; Hermione was showing me how the door is sticking slightly,” he shamelessly fibs.

“Sticking to your backs, it looked like,” Blaise snickers. “Macdolas and Ruibby are escorting Tavi to the downstairs toilet, and I wanted to ask Gus something,” he explains, eyes tracking to the open lounge room door.

“Ruibby takes Miss Tavi; Macdolas may begin to clear the tables,” the blonde maidservant trills, adeptly steering Tavi back along the corridor. “Ruibby advises to hold off on serving the selection of cakes for at least another half hour; full bellies need resting, my valiant Scotchman.”

“But… _Oui, ma douce reine_ ,” Macdolas diffidently concedes. “Macdolas defers to his dear Ruibby’s wisdom.” He trudges out through the kitchen again.

“They’re in the living room, I imagine. Hey, Blaise?” Draco pinches the other man’s sleeve as he pivots in that direction. “We meant well, before – you know, about the Gilmonts. No one wants to see you get hurt, either,” he quietly pronounces. “Just tread carefully, yes?”.

“I got the message, Draco. Didn’t much appreciate being verbally ambushed and ganged up on – but I understand where you were coming from.” He impatiently brushes off Draco’s hand. “You’d best get back out there – Hermione’s dad is threatening to re-enact his performance as ‘Willy Wonka’, and he’s trying to persuade Kreacher to be an Oompa Loompa.”

“Oh, no!” Hermione darts out of Draco’s light hold and sprints for the yard, her mien thoroughly alarmed.

“Your future father-in-law… is he completely sane?” Zabini idly enquires. “I get the impression not all his beagles are howling – or perhaps, they never stop.”

“Bernard is… kooky, but he’s not mad,” Draco admits. “He’s an acquired taste, but he has a good heart. Don’t let him at your teeth, though,” he warns. “Nor allow him to inspect Gelsy’s – she’ll never forgive you.”

“Got it.” Blaise hustles into the lounge.

Wandering out to the bruncheon gathering, Draco hides his smile behind a yawn as he witnesses Hermione leading away a bristling Kreacher. The ancient elf has his black kitten secured in the cleverly crafted sling, and is grimly glaring at a disappointed Bernard.

“I never expected him to sing, Little Wendy – he was only going to be a silent extra,” a crestfallen Bernard protests; Hermione ignores him altogether.

Wirey is prudently hiding beside Narcissa and Jane… ‘fawning over them’ would be a more accurate description. Draco drops into the seat between the two women, effectively forcing the German elf to let go of the women’s wrists and desist his practised, overly-effusive compliments.

 _Unctuous little varmint._ “Why don’t you assist Signorina Gelsomina in helping Macdolas to clear the banquet, Herr Wireceaster?” Draco encourages. “You appear to have finally rallied, after your big night out on the tiles.”

“Herr Wireceaster was led astray by an accomplished _Isebel_ … and his own hubris,” he stiffly replies. “The Macdolas has the cleaning-up well in hand, he assures Wireceaster.”

“Go re-tie Gelsy’s ribbon, then – it’s coming loose,” Draco sniggers. “And I would not refer to her as a ‘Jezebel’ ever again, if I were you.”

Wirey twirls angrily at his waxed moustache. He stomps off to snatch up an unused silver ladle, peeping critically at his reflection and adjusting the black silk cord affixed to his right ear.

“You were rather sharp with him, Draco; is something the matter?” Narcissa coolly enquires. “Who was at the door?”.

He hesitates before revealing, “Ron Weasley – hellbent on grovelling to all and sundry, after his disgraceful performance at the Gala last night.” He fills them in on Ron’s part in the drama with a few succinct sentences. 

“Hermione readily forgave him; but Potter and Pansy weren’t as lenient. He fled with his tail between his legs once he said his piece. I didn’t lay a hand on him, Mother,” Draco pre-empts Narcissa’s likely interrogation. “Not that I didn’t want to,” he grumbles under his breath.

“Ronald has the makings of a fine young man – but he needs to address the large chip still wedged on his shoulder, and rethink his place in the world,” Jane Granger sagely comments. “I never thought he was the true match for my daughter, Draco; they never… connected, the way you and Hermione have.”

“You need to learn to let go of your raging jealousy, darling. Perhaps you could extend some empathy to the Weasley boy – from all I’ve read, he experienced many hardships during Voldemort’s second reign of terror… and lost a beloved brother,” Narcissa contributes. “You of all people should understand that redemption is a torturous road to travel… Be the better human, _mon fils_.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Draco clutches the back of his neck as he eventually replies, “I’ll think on it.” His mother’s gentle reproach is… _disconcerting_ , he accedes.

“Hermione’s beckoning to you, Draco; and you should probably leave anyway, before Jane and I recommence discussing our husbands’… comparative _sprightliness_ ,” Narcissa cackles evilly as Draco rockets off his chair, shooting Jane an apologetic look for his precipitate departure.

Not that Jane Granger appears to mind; she is tipping back her head and slapping her knee in mirth. Shuddering, Draco unwillingly recalls the image of Hermione’s parents enthusiastically testing the weight-bearing limits of that heinous car seat couch in the Grangers’ study.

_I’ll never deliberately embarrass our children in such a dreadful fashion – I swear it._

“Malfoy? What’s happened? You’ve gone from appearing aghast to looking positively dreamy,” Hermione wonders.

“Our mothers are diabolical, Granger – you don’t want to know their current gossipy topic,” Draco points to where the two women are chattering and… making measuring gestures? _Oh, no._

“Never mind,” he blocks her view with his tall form. “You called me over?”.

“Yes… would you mind if I set up Tavi and the elves in the lounge to watch a video together, please? Kreacher’s worried she’s getting a little tired, and in need of a rest,” Hermione says.

“Of course not – that’s a wonderful idea. Come, we’ll clear the living room of the malingering humans and pick a film.” Draco wraps his arm around Hermione’s shoulder, nodding to Kreacher to accompany them. “We’ll advise Macdolas to round up the others once we’re inside.”

“Thank you, Draco.”

* * *

Harry tries to dismiss Ron’s pitiful face from his mind, as the distant sound of his best friend’s rapidly retreating footfalls begins to fade. He resolves to harden his heart against the guilt and regret he is experiencing.

_I meant what I said – we do need a breather. Ron will never be motivated to change his selfish ways unless he truly understands that his rash actions often have damaging consequences. I’m really going to miss the big pillock, though._

Harry’s deep sigh is cut short when Pansy shyly curves a hand around his neck, rubbing at his ear lobe. “Hey. Don’t beat up on yourself – you did the right thing, Harry. He’ll be alright – and hopefully he’ll use the time apart to work on his issues,” Pansy softly assures.

“I guess…” Harry shrugs, struggling to cast off his pervasive sense of melancholy and loss.

“Hop up,” Pansy tugs him upright with her. “Let’s talk privately – out of range of your ex, preferably,” she nods to Ginny, who is absorbed in a quiet conversation with Viktor, Luna, and Gus.

Harry obediently lets Pansy lead him from the room, giving a little wave as they pass the others. “Are you leading me astray, Pansy?” he teases, as she bypasses the staircase and continues down the back hallway.

“You wish,” the brunette quips, opening and closing a couple of doors before deciding upon one. “This will do.” She plunks down on the small single bed, flicking on the lamp… which in turn triggers the illumination of multiple strings of fairy lights.

Squinting, Harry observes, “This must be Macdolas’s bedroom… I think he might have a Gryffindor fetish.” Almost everything is red, crimson, scarlet, or cerise, including the bedding and the curtains.

“I think it’s his love nest – check this out,” Pansy hands him a framed Polaroid photograph of Mac and Ruibby, snogging each other to the point where their long noses appear to be somehow fused. The angle is odd; Harry realizes that they must have taken the snapshot at arm’s length.

 _Malfoy talks tough about his house elf… but this room proves beyond a doubt how much the blond prat cares for his cheeky little steward._ Harry shakes his head, amazed by the difference between poor Dobby’s treatment, and Macdolas’s customized living quarters.

“Are you OK, Harry? I know that was a difficult confrontation for you,” Pansy interrupts his musings. She keeps his hand in hers, delicately outlining his palm lines with her fingertips. “Ron’s been your friend – your brother, in actuality – for half your lifetime.”

“He has – but just because I love him, doesn’t mean I can continue to tolerate his behaviour,” Harry replies. “Last night was the final straw for me, Pansy. Yes, I understand – in my head – that Ron didn’t mean for Cormac to snatch you, and hurt you; but my heart is still enraged,” he confesses.

“Harry – I never want you to feel you have to choose between me, and your bestie – shit, I don’t mean to presume that I’m _that_ important to you – what I’m trying to say, is that I’m not expecting –”

“Pansy – never doubt you are of the utmost importance to me,” Harry urgently interrupts. “I haven’t chosen between the two of you – but you will _always_ come first. And– erm– I want to tell you– I want to ask you if I can– court you properly, for want of a better term,” he shuffles closer on the bed, dismissing his nerves to gaze intensely into her gorgeous jade eyes.

“C-Court me? Harry, I don’t expect– ” Pansy’s eyes are enormous, reflecting both shock and cautious joy.

“I do. I want to know you, Pansy – I want to know your mind, and your spirit… I want to know all the things that make you, _you_ … the big and the small, the silly and the substantial. I want to know if you like pickles on your burger; if you prefer windy days to rainy nights; if you’d rather watch a sunset, or a sunrise. I want to take you to the movies; I want to watch you at work; I want to know what’s your favourite meal… and I want to stop making impassioned speeches like an absolute tosser,” Harry wryly laughs at his earnest monologue.

“No one’s ever… been interested in me like that, before,” Pansy looks like a lost puppy; she splays her fingers over the near side of her face, hiding her expression.

Gently lifting away her hand, Harry waits for her eyes to connect with his.

“Their loss. We’re going to do this properly, Pansy.”

“I don’t know how I feel about that, Harry,” she hesitantly conveys. “Does that mean you don’t want to have sex with me?” she baldly asks.

“Of course I want to– I mean, I want to make love with you, Pansy… when we know each other. Properly. With– with true intimacy, I mean.” Harry blushes as Pansy lifts a quizzical black brow.

“Like – we wait a fortnight, or until some other arbitrary marker has been met?” she seems genuinely baffled.

“No: I mean, we’ll know when we’re both ready.” Harry’s tender heart aches thinking of the lack of care Pansy’s been shown, in the past. He impulsively pulls her onto his lap, deciding a little kiss will help to seal the deal.

Leaning in, Harry hovers his lips a quarter inch from hers; not closing the distance is agonizing, but he must ensure Pansy wants this as much as he does. Her minty, strawberry fragrance is heady and beguiling.

Harry has just closed his eyes when Pansy launches forward, toppling him onto his back. She twines around him, making his breath hitch as she ardently drinks freely of his parted mouth. Any vestigial thought he has of taking things slowly is blown out of the water. Harry meets her explorative hands with his own fevered strokes, thoroughly enjoying charting the graceful curves of Pansy’s bum and hips beneath her borrowed black stovepipe trousers.

Pansy’s kisses are an enchanting mix of sweet and savage; she nips at his lower lip one moment, her tongue tip soothing the tiny sting in the next instant. Harry’s head is swimming, his glasses knocked askew, and his breathing frayed.

 _By Merlin – this woman sets me afire every single time… how on earth am I to restrain myself from wanting to tumble her into bed whenever I see her?!_ Harry groans internally as he considers how he’s just narrated a pretty speech resulting in basically cockblocking himself. _I am a total fucking idiot._

Disoriented by their mounting passion, Harry fails to notice the door opening.

“Macdolas does not object to The Most Revered Excellency Auror Harry Potter and the Perfectly Pulchritudinous Miss Pansy Parkinson utilizing Macdolas’s bedroom as a libidinous rendezvous location – though he begs humble leave to be informed prior to such activities taking place!” Macdolas squalls. He skips to the bed to retrieve his elfish selfie, placing it carefully back in position atop his dresser. The mannikin’s air of aggrieved affront is evident in his crossed arms and beetled brow.

Pansy lazily lifts her head from Harry’s liberally hickey-marked throat, smirking wickedly. “Sorry, Mac. Give us a couple of minutes, and we’ll be on our way.” She ignores Macdolas’s unintelligible grumble as she bestows a last scorching kiss to Harry’s damp, puffy mouth. Her smooth dark locks gloriously tickle his inflamed skin as she turns her head to address Macdolas.

“We’re getting to know one another… it was all Harry’s idea,” she teases. “I adore what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”

Ire forgotten, Macdolas preens and begins touting the ‘special features’ of the converted boxroom.

Harry stares dazedly at Pansy as the perky elf’s animated discourse on the benefits of his Extendable Wardrobe rambles on in the background.

She smiles back at him… a slightly bashful, vulnerable beam, imbued with trust, and hope. His breath catches as he realizes she’s showing him her willingness to try for a real relationship… with him.

Harry sits up to hug her tightly.

_Oh, Pansy… I am going to do everything I can to make you see how absolutely special you are._

_I promise._

* * *

**French translations:**

_Trou du cul_ – arsehole

 _Oui, ma douce reine –_ Yes, my sweet queen.


	68. The Granger-Malfoy Townhouse Brunch: Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @aliciutza.  
> I truly appreciate your readership and constant kindness.  
> Thank you so much for all your support and your wonderful, witty, loyal reviews (and fabulous prompts).  
> You are an amazingly gifted writer and I look forward to reading more of your work.  
> 💛🧡💗
> 
> Thank you very much to all of my readers. I am blessed to have such wonderful support. 💗💗💗
> 
> Much gratitude given to my patient beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5, and to @sweeteangel1 & @Amber_26 for their invaluable help with the French translations. Merci beaucoup.
> 
> xoxo VJ

****

**Chapter 68**

_Saturday 22 March 2003: PM_

“Gus? May I speak with you for a moment, please?” Blaise stands before her, his obsidian eyes flicking to her conversing companions as he adds, “Privately, if that’s OK.”

Seated on the long blue sofa, she has to tilt up her head to meet his wary gaze. Shrugging her consent, Gus follows as Blaise strides into the hallway and opens the front door, gesturing for her to precede him onto the wide stoop. He closes the door behind them; his enticing signature scent (of fresh-cut grass, tea leaves, woodsmoke, and something uniquely… Blaise) wafts around her.

“This won’t take long. Don’t be nervous, Gussie,” Blaise's cheeks dimple becomingly as he flashes one of his impudent grins.

 _The dimples are grossly unjust – like this guy needs any bonus features when it comes to physical allure._ Gus reminds herself to stay frosty cool (and to ignore her combusting arousal).

“Nervous? Why on earth would I be nervous around you, _Blaisey_?” Gus scorns. “Tell me, when you looked in the Mirror of Erised, were you still kissing your reflection?”.

“ _Ohhh_ , burn – that was good, top points,” Blaise is unruffled, his grin widening. “I’ll have to write down that one. And I love the way you say my name, Auror Gilmont.”

“Do you intend to flirt with me much longer, or do you mean to actually discuss something?” Gus schools her face into an expression of bored stolidity… _though my dratted blush ruins the effect,_ she thinks sourly.

Blaise insouciantly copies her mien, down to her crossed arms. The corners of Gus’s primmed-together lips quirk as she endeavours not to smile at the clown.

“You know, Tavi’s fond of mimicry to get under my skin,” Gus cuttingly remarks. “Her excuse is that she’s _ten_.”

“The girl’s a legend, and I hope she’s smart enough to never forgo the delights of affectionately mocking her gorgeous sister,” Blaise winks. “No, don’t leave – I promise I’ll be good… well, I’ll behave.” The light touch of his hand on her arm as he prevents her from reopening the front door is disproportionately titillating.

Saying nothing, Gus waits, unwilling to break the minute contact. She masks her reactive shiver by rubbing at her collarbone with her free hand.

“Gus… I don’t have much experience with normal families – I mean, I have a family – sort of – I didn’t spawn from an egg or something – look, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want you to worry that you and Tavi are just a passing whim to me,” Blaise’s wonted suaveness is notably lacking as he grits his teeth and drones a sigh.

“OK, let me try that again, please. The guys staged a mini-intervention before; they basically warned me off encroaching upon your life if I have no intention of sticking around. They said that I can’t let Tavi become attached to me if I’m not prepared to be there for her in future.” Blaise shakes his head in angry negation.

“I know they meant well – and I get the point they were conveying – but I want you to understand that I am committed to being a true friend, to you and Tavi… and Mrs Green, of course. _She’s_ the ultimate Gilmont matriarch.”

Something small and fuzzy wakes within Gus’s guarded heart, yawning and stretching its fluffy limbs. She doesn’t trust herself to respond, apart from a tiny, encouraging nod.

Blaise slides his grip down her arm, gingerly curling his fingers around hers. “I really like Tavi, Gus; she’s an amazing kidlet, and I’m going to do everything I can to be a positive, supportive, and dependable friend to her…. to all of you. So that’s all I wanted to say – you needn’t worry I’ll grow bored, or find excuses to fade out of her life. I won’t be a disappointment to either of you, I swear.”

His boyish earnestness is difficult to resist; Gus unconsciously sidles closer, hopelessly entranced. She bestows him with an impulsive, heartfelt grin.

“Sweet baby dragons, Gus… you shouldn’t smile at me like that,” Blaise gulps. “Your smile… it could light the darkest of winter nights. You’re so beautiful, Gussie.”

Gus withdraws as quickly as she’d advanced, yanking loose her hand from his gentle clasp. “I don’t need you to tell me pretty lies, Blaise Zabini. I know I’m not beautiful; I’d rather be strong, and loyal, and smart, in any case. Step aside, please; I want to re-join the party,” she stiffly instructs.

“Hey – you are all those things – they are part and parcel of your beauty, of course – _and_ you’re a stunningly comely woman, to boot,” Blaise frowns. “Do you not believe me because you think I’m an incorrigible flirt, or is there a deeper issue at play here?” he blocks her exit with his tall, broad frame.

Lips twisted bitterly, Gus replies, “I’m six feet tall, built like a brick shithouse, with zero interest in (or knowledge of) feminine prettification, or fashion. I’m well aware that the men who pursue me see me as an oddity, a freak – hence, ‘the Arctic Amazon’ moniker. I’d rather live with the plain truth than believe in a lie.”

Blaise’s furious snarl of dissent is the last reaction she’d expected; Gus is startled when he jerks his head closer, until their mouths are almost touching. His warm breath puffs against her lips.

“Tell me the names of these fucking fools, and I’ll make them wish they were born without their lying, scurrilous tongues,” he rasps. “You’re a goddess, Augusta Meredith Gilmont. Kiss me – judge for yourself whether I truly find you attractive – I won’t touch you, except with my mouth. Go on,” he invites, tucking his hands securely behind his back and staring fiercely into her shocked eyes.

“No – you’re being ridiculous– ” Gus growls.

“Ah – you’re scared. That’s a shame,” Blaise taunts.

Later, Gus decides that the faint ‘tsk’ the cunning man made is what finally tipped her into accepting his challenge. _He played me like a freaking fiddle… but Gods, what a tune._

She hurtles into him, her body pushing his back to the door as her hands find purchase on his corded neck. The first touch of her mouth to his is a revelation of competing sensations: warmth, firmness, softness, the smell of apple juice, and the taste of rhubarb and sweet cream. Their noses bump before Gus finds the right angle; she sinks into him with a deep groan, pressing them together from chest to knees.

Blaise’s initial passivity vanishes when Gus boldly licks her tongue around his. He moans, his breath shallow and irregular, as he switches the angle of the kiss to robustly nip, and plunge his tongue deeper. A savage flare of pure yearning engulfs Gus, as she scrapes her breasts against his pectorals, her hands moving down his shoulders and burly arms, circling and squeezing.

 _He’s so sexy, so thrilling… so **extra** ,_ Gus thinks. _Like rich chocolate mudcake, or a Thai tom yum gai soup… multi-flavoured and deliciously complex._ She applies herself to thoroughly exploring the delights of his silky mouth once more, her fingers stroking urgently down Blaise’s sinewy sides. He nudges his hips against her groin in tight, inflaming motions; the two layers of denim do little to mask his swelling hardness.

The whimper Blaise emits when Gus wedges his thigh between her legs is thrilling, inspiring her to slide up and down in tiny increments. She grabs at his buttocks, revelling in their taut muscularity, as their kiss impossibly deepens.

“Gussie – _la mia bella guerriera_ – my beautiful warrior – more, I need more –” Blaise pants, between their swollen lips. “ _Please_ –”

The suddenness of the door opening behind him catches them off guard, with wholly mortifying consequences. Blaise ungracefully falls back onto his rump, windmilling his arms just in time to keep from smacking the back of his head on the floor; Gus lands between his legs and unfortunately collides solidly with Blaise’s bulging loins.

The high-pitched scream the man releases is painful to hear. He clutches at the crotch of his jeans, eyes compressed tightly, as Gus scrambles to untangle their long limbs.

“Blaise! I’m so sorry – here, let me help you up,” Gus tries to kneel, but the smooth floor (and her arousal-induced befuddlement) work against her regaining her balance.

Harry and Pansy peer down at their writhing bodies.

“Erm… sorry, guys. Gus – I just received an owl from Pritchard-Hawes, he needs us both to go in to the Ministry, pronto. Zabini… do you need a Healer, mate?” Harry’s apologetic tone is undermined by the amused smirk stretching his mouth.

Worming erratically across the floor, Blaise squeakily answers, “I’ll – be – OK – gimme – a – minute.”

Extending his hand to Gus, Harry quickly assists her to her feet. She cannot meet his eyes, instead pretending an intense interest in straightening her shirt cuffs.

“We couldn’t find you anywhere; Macdolas noticed shadows at the bottom of the door frame,” Pansy nods to the agog elf, who is fascinatedly watching Blaise wriggle in pain.

“Master Zabini takes a bad hit to his cobblers,” he redundantly states. “Shall Macdolas prepare a bag of ice?”.

“No – don’t – touch me – no ice – leave me – to die – with my – dignity,” Blaise whines. “Tell – Theo – he can – finally have – my rare – Galleon collection.”

 _He can’t be too badly hurt, if he’s still cracking jokes,_ Gus surmises with relief. _I hope I’ll be able to see the funny side of this one day – but by Morgana – how embarrassing!_

Meeting Pansy’s mirthful eyes, Gus hurriedly announces, “I’ll just grab Tavi, and Apparate us home. I’ll be right behind you, Auror Potter.”

“’Harry’ – it’s ‘ _Harry’_ , Gus. And be assured I’ll be insisting that Kolton calls me that, too,” Harry decrees. “The summons isn’t urgent, so don’t rush.”

“Yes, Auror Potter– sir– Harry– ” Dipping her head, Gus bolts for the lounge room, following the sound of little giggles.

Were she not feeling anxious and awkward about being caught madly snogging Zabini, Gus would be more appreciative of the charming scene that greets her as she bumbles into the living room.

Tavi is sprawled comfortably in the middle of the sky blue corduroy bean bag, sharing the squashy chair with Ruibby and Gelsy. Luna is sitting on the couch behind them, Kreacher and Boadie beside her, and Wirey in the far corner position. Hermione and Draco are wrapped in a loose clinch, leaning against the tall bookcases in the back of the room, and cooing softly to one another.

Bernard Granger is standing in front of the television, excitedly shuffling two videos in his large hands and talking nineteen to the dozen.

“… so what it boils down to is: New York, or London? They’re both Muppet classics – but for me, ‘The Great Muppet Caper’ really epitomizes the spirit of the franchise,” Bernard babbles. “It’s got everything – mystery, a heist, comedy up the wazoo, and a good old-fashioned romance between a frog and a pig,” he concludes his argument.

“Macdolas asks if Muppets are related to Smurfs, Father Dentist Granger?” Macdolas trots into the room, jumping up onto the sofa to squeeze between Luna and Kreacher.

“Er, no… these are technically marionette puppets – ‘Muppet’ is a contraction of ‘marionette’ and ‘puppet’, see? Henson reckoned that wasn’t the case, but I’m sticking with it – whereas the Smurfs are a cartoon show – eh, I might let Hermione explain it, if she ever manages to detach from Blondie over there,” Bernard replies, as blank little faces greet his explanation.

“Herr Wireceaster asks how a pig _und_ frog become sweethearts?” Wirey challenges.

Bernard waves dismissively, turning to slot the video cassette into the machine. “Look, it’s best not to dig at that odd hole – it’s a crazy, fun ride, that’s all you need to know.”

Gus walks to stand before her sister. “Tavi, I’ve been called into work; it’s time to go, Kiddo.”

“But Gus! We’re just about to watch a movie, and we haven’t even had any cake yet!” Tavi vociferously objects, as Gus holds out her hand. “Mac said I can have a piece of each one, if I like!”. The girl’s lower lip trembles as her faced reddens.

“I told you this morning that it was likely I’d have to cut this visit short if work needed me; you knew this might happen, Tavi. Come on, please – I have to take you home to Mrs Green.” Gus reaches again for her sister’s hand, becoming increasingly irked when Tavi crosses her arms stubbornly and flumps deeper into the beanbag.

“Gus, we’re more than happy to look after Tavi for the afternoon,” Hermione breaks in. “Forgive me for interrupting – I don’t wish to undermine your authority – but I promise Tavi will be safe here until you return.”

“I’ll be here too, Gus; you needn’t worry at all,” Luna contributes, smiling placidly. “Apparently we’re going to play something called Mono Poles, after the film.”

“’Monopoly’, Luna love. We might have to break into teams though – oh, I bag the Hat,” Bernard slaps his hands together in merry anticipation. “Little Wendy and Lord of the Manor here can fetch the board from her flat, right?”.

“Look, I don’t expect you to shoulder my responsibilities – not that I don’t appreciate the offer,” Gus demurs. “It’s too much of an imposition.”

“Nonsense,” Draco dismisses. “You’d have a hard time separating Tavi from the elves, anyway; they’ve well and truly adopted her,” he points to a nodding Gelsy and Ruibby, on either side of the child. “And we do need help in consuming all that cake,” he grins.

“Please, Gus Gus! I’ll be really good… and I won’t eat _too_ much… please?” Tavi implores, clasping her hands together beseechingly.

“Alright, Little Orphan Annie – but you’re to obey Hermione and Luna without question, and have a rest if you start to tire, OK?” Gus surrenders to the familial and peer pressure with some relief.

“Oh, thank you, Gus! I will, I promise,” Tavi snuggles back in amongst her elfish buddies, looking like she’s won the Lotto.

From the corner of her eye, Gus notes Harry and Pansy strolling back into the room; they appear flushed and happy, and are holding hands like high school sweethearts.

“Ready to go, Gus? We heard the tail end of that discussion,” Harry smiles.

“Yes – unless you’d prefer I went home and changed into my uniform, Auror– Harry?”.

“No need, we’ll be fine as we are,” Harry replies. “Blaise is slowly rallying; ah, here he comes now.”

Zabini limps carefully through the door, appearing anomalously subdued. His weak grin morphs into a brilliant beam as he stares at Gus.

The weight of his gaze sets her blood afire all over again; Gus has to look away, afraid the whole room can tell she is hungry like the wolf for the handsome young wizard. He keeps grinning at her like a loon, setting off snickers and whispers among the lounge crowd.

“I’ll be here when you return, Gussie,” Blaise confidently declares. “Then I’ll escort you both home – no, don’t protest, Mrs Green made me promise. Have a productive afternoon, Auror Gilmont.” He winks slowly, clearly delighted by her heightened colour and restless jitters.

Gus settles for a curt nod as she pinches the Floo powder and quickly steps into the chimney. “Bye – and thanks,” she addresses the room at large, before the teleportation system whirls her toward the Ministry.

Closing her eyes against the confusing maelstrom of Floo travel, Gus is dismayed to realize that the image of Blaise’s exquisitely charming countenance seems permanently etched upon her mind.

_It was just a kiss – a dare, she soothes. He’s doubtless kissed a veritable horde of witches… it would be silly to attribute any special meaning to this particular encounter. Sly bastard knows I can’t resist picking up a gauntlet._

_But… damn, the man can **kiss**. _

* * *

Putting down her fork, Hermione suppresses a burp as she blissfully swallows the last bite of delectably moist chocolate coconut cake. _Oh, dear… I seem to have developed a bit of a sweets baby belly._ She surreptitiously undoes the top button of her jeans before leaning back into Draco’s arm. He gives her a tender smile and a cute bop-kiss to the tip of her nose, before returning his attention to their guests.

“Check out this one – Theo, have you ever thought about shearing your elf? Look at him, man – I’ve seen less fur on a forest wolf,” Draco wheezes, handing over the next Polaroid.

“Look, he’s not that hairy – no, sorry, he is,” Theo winces and hurriedly passes the snapshot to Blaise. “For the love of lizards, don’t ever show me a bare-chested Wirey again, Draco! He looks like he’s wearing a medieval hair shirt.”

“That’s quite an impressive pelt,” Blaise comments, before bursting into rollicking laughter. “Did you notice the bunny ears Gelsy is making, behind him? Touché.”

Hermione puzzledly enquires, “Why do Wirey and Gelsy dislike each other so? I noticed her glorying in lording that black ribbon over him all throughout brunch.”

Theo and Blaise share an amused look, before erupting into fresh hilarity.

“No – you tell them – I’m dying here, Theo,” Blaise chokes.

“Well, when I first returned to live permanently in England, I introduced Wirey to Gelsy; they’re of an age, and Blaise and I thought they might become friends, seeing as how they’ve both been transplanted from their native soil,” Theo expounds.

“Wirey went a bit stupid at the sight of Gels and immediately asked her on a date; but when the time came, he lost his nerve and hid in the wine cellar of Nott House. I couldn’t find him for hours, I was getting quite worried. He turned up like a bad Knut eventually, but the damage was done. Gelsy was slighted and infuriated, and has been gunning for the silly bugger ever since.” Theo shakes his head in fond exasperation.

“Well… all your elves lead rather more exciting lives than I ever realized,” Jane Granger opines. “Is there no hope of reconciliation?”.

“It’s unlikely. Wirey is as shy as porcupine when it comes to females he might actually have a chance with,” Theo answers. “And I doubt that Gelsy would accept an apology, at this late stage.”

“Shy?! He’s disgracefully smarmy and sycophantic whenever he comes within five feet of women!” Draco contends.

“Yes – because he’s safe to flirt up a storm and write dreadful German poems in their honour… but he’s terrified of elven females who may truly break his squishy heart. Gelsy’s had many admirers; Blaise has had to chase off a few when they became unbearably persistent,” Theo chuckles.

Pansy guffaws loudly. “Your elves are taking over, you know that, right? Horny little devils.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, Pansy? Macdolas told me how he discovered you and Harry pawing at each other… on _his_ bed,” Draco razzes.

“Why, that toadying little tattletale!” Pansy exclaims. “We were– we were merely formalizing our… courtship,” she imparts, smiling joyfully.

“How lovely, Pansy; I’m so pleased for you,” Narcissa Malfoy reaches across the table to pat Pansy’s hand. “It’s well past time you were treated properly by an estimable wizard.”

“Thanks, Narcissa,” Pansy shyly replies. “I hope Harry won’t be… disappointed.”

“Oh, pish tosh! Harry Potter has struck gold with you, Pansy – and he knows it. His eyes never left you throughout bruncheon, my dear.” Narcissa nods decisively.

 _Dearest Pansy… for all her sass and spine, she’s as vulnerable as I am, when it comes to matters of the heart._ Hermione kicks her legs beneath the long table delightedly as she recalls Draco’s astonishing announcement about putting the townhouse in both their names; and his emphatic reiteration that they live together, permanently.

_Cripes. I can’t believe he’s done that! I mean, I do believe Draco when he tells me he loves me – hell, he shows me, every day… and with our soul bonded magic… oh, he makes me so happy._

She impulsively kisses Draco on the cheek, not objecting in the slightest when he swiftly captures her mouth with his.

“Leave it out, you two – it was bad enough watching Ginny and Viktor uninhibitedly pashing, before they did us all a favour and finally departed,” Theo good-naturedly grumbles.

Draco responds by kissing Hermione more avidly… and flipping Theo his middle finger.

Pulling away breathlessly, Hermione whispers, “Malfoy… we _are_ being rude hosts. Don’t you have some more photos to show us?”.

“Spoilsport,” he murmurs into her ear. “Later, Granger.”

He selects the next shot; Hermione chortles at the sight. A belligerent Wirey (dressed only in his underpants) is slumped beside the coffee table, unsteadily clutching a shot glass of peach schnapps. Gelsy is on the other side, cleverly balancing her own glass on her tousled head, her peanut-brown eyes glowing with triumphant spite. In the background, Kreacher is carefully feeding Boadie a plate of tuna, on the hearth.

“Damn, Kreacher loves that kitten,” Pansy comments. “Harry pretended to be irked he wasn’t allowed to hold Boadie, but secretly he’s thrilled that Kreacher won’t be so lonely. He told me he worries about him… he’s getting on in years, isn’t he?”.

“Yes… though perhaps he’ll look after himself better, now he has Boadie to take care of,” Hermione muses. _I’ll quietly raise the subject of treatment for his arthritis again soon… Kreacher may be more amenable. It’s a plan._

“I’ve eaten enough cake today to last me a lifetime – and yet, I can’t stop myself from wanting a taste of that New York baked cheesecake,” Jane groans. “Hermione, Draco – you’ve treated us to a magnificent party, today. Thank you so much, darlings,” she smiles.

“You’re most welcome, Jane,” Draco pushes the desired sweet toward her, laughing as Jane first waves him off, then cuts herself a sliver.

 _I really never, ever, **ever** thought I’d be sitting in the back garden of Draco Malfoy’s London townhouse, eating half a dozen types of fancy, delicious cakes with an eclectic assortment of witches, wizards, friends, family… and elves._ Hermione discreetly pinches her own arm, just to be sure.

“What are you doing, my funny little lioness?” Draco rubs at the tiny red spot on her forearm.

“Oh, nothing… just marvelling at my good fortune,” Hermione diverts. “I love you, Draco. I love our home, and our family,” she tips her chin to the group. “Thank you, for sharing all this with me… thank you, for loving me.”

“Hermione, all the thanks are due to you, my love. My sweet, sexy, beautiful, miraculous Hermione. I love you.” Draco gathers her onto his lap for a tight, emotional hug.

Clinging gladly to her beau, Hermione widens her eyes, glimpsing her mother nudging Narcissa; the two women share smug smiles, before bending together their heads in obvious ‘plot’ mode.

“Draco? Are you a little scared that our mothers appear to be in cahoots?” Hermione wonders.

“I’m terrified, sweetheart. Can’t you feel me quivering? Hold me tighter, Hermione,” he dramatically requests.

“You’re shameless, Draco! And I love it,” Hermione sits up, loving the feeling of his silky silvered mop as she cards her hands through his hair.

“Indeed I am – but only for you, _ma petite_. Only for you.”

“Ditto, _mon coeur_. Only for you.”

* * *

Blaise leans against the kitchen doorframe, not bothering to hide his grin at the antics unfolding at the table.

“Herr Wireceaster lands on the Mayfair, with one hotel – thus now owing Gelsy two thousand pounds,” the Italian elf trills, her accent giving the ‘Rs’ a lilting roll. “Herr Wireceaster has not the bucks nor the bangs – Herr Wireceaster is _bankrupted_ ,” she vehemently hisses.

Bernard Granger foolishly tries to play peacemaker, as Wirey works on his impressive head of steam.

“Now, now, let’s not be too hasty – haven’t you a few properties left to mortgage, Wireman? What happened to Bond Street, eh? Ah, no – that’s right – you had to let it go when Tavi hit you for landing on Piccadilly,” Bernard pulls an apologetic face.

“Herr Wireceaster tells Signorina Gelsomina she need not monstrously gloat at the misfortunes of a poor German elf!” Wirey fumbles at his ear, tugging wrathfully at the jet silk ribbon. Flinging it onto the board, he gripes, “Wireceaster deserves not the unrelenting barrage of malice directed by Gelsomina, and demands immediate cessation!”

“ _Stupido ometto_! Herr Wireceaster shows himself to be the poorest of losers, yet again!” Gelsy screeches, using the blue and red property deed cards in her hand to gesticulate wildly.

“ _Herzlose Füchsin!_ Wireceaster advises Gelsomina she hath the _monopoly_ on viciousness! _Ich habe genug gehabt!_ ” he grips the edge of the square board game and forcefully overturns it. Much shrieking ensues, amidst the chaos of falling paper monies, cards, and plastic and metal pieces.

Running over, Blaise grabs Gelsy around the waist before her wrathful kicks can find purchase on Wirey’s person.

“He’s not worth it, Gelsy – it’s alright, you bested him,” he comforts, as her struggles ease. “Let’s return to the lounge with the girls – we’ll watch another movie, OK?”.

To Wirey, he orders, “Go outside and find Theo – quickly, now! You need to chill out, you little spitfire.”

Giving an imperious sniff, Gelsy stiffly acquiesces. Wirey speedily darts out the back door. Turning, Blaise is surprised to find a composed Tavi helping Ruibby, Mac, and Luna to gather the fallen accoutrements of the game.

“Don’t worry, Mr Blaise – most Monopoly games end this way,” the child utters her wisdom in an endearingly world-weary tone. “Gus doesn’t like to lose, either; it’s why our set is missing nearly half the houses.”

 _Ah, this kid…_ _could she be any cuter??_ Blaise crouches to give them a hand, though his big fingers have some trouble scooping up the tiny pieces.

He chuckles as Mac grouchily expresses, “The Wirey knows how to kill a buzz – Macdolas was coming second! Macdolas seriously considers rescinding the Wirey’s G.R.E.A.S.E.R.S. membership.”

“Wirey hasn’t broken any of the constitutional rules of our club, darlingest Macdolas; the Wirey cannot and should not be booted,” Ruibby chides. “Macdolas must learn to get along with his German counterpart.”

Macdolas mutters something highly uncomplimentary beneath his breath, before smiling toothsomely at his diminutive paramour. “Yes, _ma moitié_.”

Bernard ducks his head under the table. “I’ve picked out ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and ‘Aladdin’ – both animated classics – so now we have to decide: prickly, tormented, furry prince and brave bookworm, or scampish street rat and gutsy princess? You’re going to have to make the final call, my heart is cleaved right down the middle,” he sighs lustily.

“Why don’t we let Miss Octavia choose? She _is_ the guest of honour here,” Blaise suggests.

“I am? Wow… um, ‘Beauty and the Beast’, please. Beast is my favourite, but Gus likes Aladdin because he’s so cheeky,” Tavi glances knowingly at Blaise.

 _The girl’s as smart as paint…_ Blaise hastily stands up, holding out his hand to the wise little moppet. “Come on, Kiddo – you get to choose the best seat, before this rabble descends. Ease up, Mac, I’m joking,” he forestalls the elf’s indignant squawk.

Bernard literally skips ahead of them, making Blaise wonder anew if the man is wholly sane. He sniggers to himself as he envisions Barney meeting Lucius for the first time.

_What I wouldn’t give to be a Flesh fly on that wall…_

“Mr Blaise? Thank you very much, for inviting us here,” Tavi solemnly communicates, her taffy-brown eyes rounded with sincerity. “This is the _very_ best day of my life – well, it’s a tie with when Gus took me to Legoland Windsor last year, and we rode ‘The Dragon’… but then I spewed afterward,” she confesses.

“Gus warned me not to eat that second hot dog so fast… but she was nice enough not to say, ‘I told you so’,” Tavi adds.

“When I was littler, I had Oropharyngeal Dysphagia: that means difficulty swallowing, because of my muscle and nerve dysfunctions, you know. I had to eat a lot of really boring pureed food and see the speech pathologist and occupational therapist to learn different swallowing techniques. I’m much better now, Mr Blaise,” she staunchly avers. “Having another little vanilla cupcake wouldn’t bother me at all, I’m sure.”

 _The sweet, clever little darling!_ Blaise curbs his urge to enfold the tiny, plucky witchlet in a big bear hug. He settles for carefully helping her scooch onto the middle of the sofa, and plumping up the softest, fluffiest cushions to place behind her back and neck.

“You’re a regular con artist, Miss Octavia; like recognizes like, you understand,” Blaise grins. “We’ll see, about that extra cupcake… as long as you promise me one thing.”

“What’s that, Mr Blaise?” Tavi curiously replies.

“If Gus gets shirty when she hears how much cake you’ve eaten today, we both tell her that Barney insisted you eat as much as you like. Deal?” Blaise whispers, sticking out his big paw.

“Deal!” Tavi vigorously shakes, giggling preciously.

Sitting down beside her, Blaise feels a mild twinge of alarm at how much making this child happy already means to him.

 _Well, I’d have to have the hairiest of hearts to not be moved by her struggles,_ he rationalizes. _And as for her sister…_

Lost in a glorious remembrance of the singular bliss of Gussie’s intoxicating acceptance of his ‘dare’ ( _sweet Salazar, her lips! Her hands! That noise she made when I nipped her jaw! The fire in her eyes when she launched herself at me… her fiercely splendid face, and champion’s heart…_ ) Blaise startles when Tavi lightly prods his ribs.

“The movie’s starting, Mr Blaise! This bit is really important, it explains how the prince becomes the Beast.”

“Alright, Kiddo. I’m watching.”

* * *

Narcissa carves another plump triangular wedge off the walnut-adorned coffee cake, neatly dividing it in half.

“Jane, I insist you share this portion with me; you’ve not tasted coffee cake until you’ve tried Ruibby’s spectacular version,” Narcissa commands, pushing the plate between them and picking up her fork. “I know how dreadfully spoiled I am to have such wonderful domestic staff, and I take full advantage of it,” she laughs.

“Oh, I shouldn’t– I’ve consumed a month’s worth of sweets in one day, as it is!” Jane half-heartedly demurs. “Although… it does smell fabulous…”

Wordlessly, Narcissa hands her new friend a fresh dessert fork. They cackle together as they dig in.

“ _Ohmigod_ … Narcissa, this is positively orgasmic,” Jane moans around her cutlery. “I’m divorcing Barney and marrying this cake. It’s a shame: I’ve grown rather fond of him – but he’s never brought me _this_ ,” she declares.

“Do call me ‘Cissy’, if you like; all my friends do. Bernard… he’s very loving, isn’t he? I know you wouldn’t think it, but Lucius loves me so fiercely… too fiercely, some might say. His devotion and overdeveloped sense of protectiveness were often the catalyst for his horrible past actions,” Narcissa quietly divulges, laying aside her fork. “I have hope that his recent willingness to seek therapy shall lead to a new, positive era of openness for our little family.”

Patting her hand comfortingly, Jane smiles in sympathy. “You’ve had rather a rough time of things, haven’t you, Cissy? I’d invite you to call me by my nickname, but it’s almost impossible to shorten ‘Jane’ much further.”

 _I see where Hermione gets her sweet, loyal, unbounded heart,_ Narcissa thinks. _Although Bernard Granger’s unbridled lust for life clearly also plays a part in the dear girl’s inherited traits._ _Thank Circe that Hermione doesn’t share his enthusiasm for the boisterously absurd; I’m going to have to prepare Lucius days in advance as to how to politely cope with the Granger patriarch’s zany personality._

“Thank you, Jane. I will admit to having experienced some loneliness, over the past few years – though I deserved no less, for the part I played in the terrible events of the War,” Narcissa’s mouth droops.

“Nonsense – if it weren’t for you declaring Harry dead to Voldemort – lying like an absolute BOSS, I might add – we’d all be toast,” Jane robustly objects. “I’ve made it my business to learn everything I can about that horrific time; and your actions were integral to the ‘goodies’ triumphing, Cissy. I won’t allow anyone to denigrate my friends, and that includes you.”

Struck speechless, Narcissa blinks away a tear or two. _I do wish we’d met much sooner… never mind._

“Let’s talk of happier things, hmmm? Such as – how long do you estimate until Draco proposes? Judging by their closeness, I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t already popped the question,” Jane ruminates, nodding to the other table.

Hermione is still seated in Draco’s lap, the pair of them chatting and laughing with Pansy and Theo as they reminisce about their happier Hogwarts memories. Wirey broods beside them, sullenly flattening and reshaping his elaborate moustache, mumbling crossly in German.

“He refuses to say, the silly boy,” Narcissa answers. “I do know he’s been sneaking around our Gringotts vault, and visiting jewellers. It shan’t be long now, I’m sure,” she complacently states.

“Are you set upon the Manor, for the reception? Hermione has a horror of being the centre of attention in crowded events, especially when she’s the focus of all eyes,” Jane discloses. “It stems from her Muggle schooling, I think… she was teased mercilessly for being an overachiever, plus she was miles smarter than the other children. I’ve always thought that bullying led in turn to her insecurity about her romantic relationships, Cissy. She was so busy trying to prove she belonged in both worlds that she allowed herself no time to simply _be_ , if that makes sense.”

“It does – and I do apologize for the part my family played in exacerbating her distress,” Narcissa sorrowfully responds. “Contrary to his poor treatment of her at school, Draco has been pining for Hermione since the first moment he saw her – though he hid it for eons, for a multitude of reasons. No, no, I won’t dwell on the negatives; no need to scold me, Jane. To answer your question: they can be married in a dilapidated greenhouse on the grounds of Hogwarts, if they wish – just as long as we parents are in attendance!”.

“Agreed,” Jane clinks her cup of tea to Narcissa’s. “I think that if we’re cunning – and do most of the planning ourselves – we can find a decent compromise between ‘lavish pageant’ and ‘intimate gathering’, for their wedding.”

“Here’s to us!” Narcissa gaily toasts. The two women fall about laughing as their children turn their nervy, apprehensive gazes upon them.

“Quick – let’s start talking about sex again,” Jane chirps. “Please tell me more about that special hip motion of Lucius’s? What did you call it… ‘The Limber Lolabug?”

“’The Limber Lobalug’,” Narcissa corrects. “The trick is to stay perfectly still while he thrusts up and in a clockwise motion, you see.” She demonstrates by making a circle with her left hand and twisting her right fingers inside.

“Oh! That’s interesting – I admit we’ve developed a similar manoeuvre, though it works best when I’m on top and Bernard is clinging to the bed rails for dear life,” Jane leans in. “I’ve named it ‘The Sugarpuss Swivel’… that’s Barney’s pet name for me,” she pinkens prettily.

“Mum! We can hear you!” a scandalized Hermione hollers. “Please, stop!”.

“Sweetie, you’re the witch – cast a Muffy Latté, if you’re that bothered,” Jane calmly ripostes. Narcissa nearly slides off her chair as her helpless merriment overcomes her.

“Jane – you are utterly priceless– ” she gasps, wiping at her wet eyes. “Our adorably daft offspring don’t stand a chance against the two of us.”

“I’m counting on it, Cissy.”

Smirking saucily, Jane finishes off the coffee cake.

* * *

Stepping out of the townhouse’s Floo, Gus snorts to herself as Kreacher immediately places a gnarled shushing finger to his lips; the elderly elf glares as he jerks his head to the slumbering creatures all around him.

 _Oh, be still my dopey heart._ Gus swallows spasmodically as her eyes alight on the devastatingly captivating tableau before her.

Kreacher is half-swallowed in the right corner of the lounge; beside him, Gelsy is snoring softly against Tavi’s side. A soundly sleeping Tavi is tucked securely against Blaise’s shoulder, his long limb extended to keep both females from lolling. Kitten Boadie is nestled in Blaise’s lap, blithely catnapping. Luna is in the left corner, supported by Blaise’s other shoulder… and also fast asleep.

Mac and Ruibby occupy the beanbag; Mac on his back, with Ruibby draped across him. Bernard Granger is awkwardly spread over an armchair; everyone bar Kreacher and Blaise is dead to the world.

From behind her, Harry whispers, “We should get Malfoy’s Polaroid – this is too sweet for words.”

Hermione appears at the doorway. “I’m one step ahead of you, Harry – as per usual,” she continues to speak in a low tone as she holds up a number of snapshots, and the Wizardly camera. “Blaise is particularly photogenic, as it happens,” she grins at Gus.

_Nope – not touching that gibe with a broomstick, Brightest Witch!_

Gus allows herself to fleetingly glance at Blaise’s smiling, drowsy, beautiful eyes. “We’d best get going – Tavi’s had a long day. Was she alright? Anything I should know about?”. Her eyebrow rises at the evidence of cake crumbs and a number of empty paper cupcake cases scattered on the floor and table. “How badly did she pig out?”

“Bernard ate most of those,” Blaise claims. “Tavi’s fine – she had a ball.”

“OK. Here, I’ll take her– ” Gus moves forward.

“No, I have her – Kreacher, would you pick up Boadie, please? Gus, if you wouldn’t mind steadying Gels – thank you.” Blaise gingerly leans Luna back the other way, sliding a cushion under her fair head. He cradles Tavi as though she’s made of the finest china, supporting her little head and legs with an expertise that frankly astonishes Gus. She bites her lip as she lowers Gelsy down onto the couch.

He turns to Hermione. “Thank you for a wonderful day, Golden Girl. I’ll come back for Gels once I’ve seen my girls safely to their flat.”

 _‘My girls’??_ Gus opens and closes her mouth in a trout-like fashion, finally deciding to leave _that_ verbal grenade alone, too.

“You’re very welcome, Blaise; and thank you so much for bringing Gus and Tavi. We’ve loved getting to know you, and please visit us any time,” Hermione beams. “Draco left for his meeting a little while ago; and Theo took home Wirey before any more fights broke out, but they both asked me to pass along their goodbyes.”

“Right – OK – um, thank you, Hermione. I’d – I’d like that,” Gus stammers. “We’ve really enjoyed ourselves… you’ve made Tavi’s year, I think.”

“The pleasure was all ours, Gus,” Hermione avouches. “You’d better take good care of our Gilmont girls, Blaise, you hear me? Goodnight,” she gives Gus a quick hug and pats Blaise’s back.

“Goodnight,” Blaise and Gus reply in unison; their gazes clash, sparking fresh heat in Gus’s blood.

“Well… shall we Side-Apparate back to the park?” Gus shyly suggests, belatedly realizing that Blaise has both his hands full with carrying her little sister… _meaning I’m going to have to latch onto him._

“Yes: if you wouldn’t mind – erm, holding onto me,” Blaise lifts Tavi a little so Gus can access his waist. “Let’s go home, Gussie.”

Clinging securely onto Zabini’s belt (and his washboard abdomen), Gus strives to crush her galloping heart at his words… and his warm, intense regard.

Shutting her eyes, her persistent thought is that she has grossly erred, both in initially dismissing Blaise’s character as frivolous and entitled… and in not working harder to suppress her raging attraction to him.

_And why, oh why, does the man have to smell so good?? I could roll around on him like a cat in a herb garden._

Sniffing as inconspicuously as she can, Gus mentally shrugs, hanging on tightly.

_Take us home, Blaise._

* * *

**Translations**

**Italian**

_Stupido ometto! –_ Stupid little man!

**German**

_Herzlose Füchsin! –_ Heartless vixen!

 _Ich habe genug gehabt! –_ I’ve had enough!

**French**

_ma moitié –_ my better half (colloquially, it can also mean ‘my ball and chain’).


	69. Transgression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Megantelope.  
> Thank you so much for your constant readership, unwavering support, and encouraging, intelligent comments.  
> I appreciate it greatly.
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5: I hope the flashback was what you had in mind; I'll tackle the Amortentia scene another day XD.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for helping me through a tough week.  
> I am very, very grateful for your supportive kindness.  
> xoxo VJ
> 
> With regards to the content of this chapter: it starts with Dramione fluff and sweetness, followed by Hansy angst. The themes in the second scene are dark, so please don't read it if you feel triggered in any way.  
> Please message me on Tumblr (@valancyjane) if you'd prefer a chapter summary. xo

****Trigger warning: mention of past sexual abuse, pedophilia, and child pornography (not explicitly detailed).**

****

_Sunday 23 March 2003: AM_

“Draco! Well, knock me down with a feather – where’ve you been, dear?!” Bonnie exclaims, rushing over to wrap him in an energetic hug as they darken the doors of Death Before Decaf. “It must be six weeks since you came by!”.

“A month, actually,” Draco grins, his happiness spilling out like an overstuffed cannoli. “Bonnie, you remember Hermione? My sweet, beautiful _girlfriend_?” he proudly adds the stress to the last word. Hermione pertly squeezes his left buttock, her groping hand hidden behind his broad back as Draco re-introduces her to their agog, effervescent waitress.

“Oh! I knew it, I just _knew_ it – after I served you two that morning, I went home and I said to Clyde – Clyde’s my hubby, love,” she excitedly explains to Hermione, “I told him, our Draco came in today and he had the loveliest young lady with him, they tried to snow me that they weren’t together but you could just about smell the furrymoans leaching off them, what with the URST and all,” Bonnie babbles.

Not having the heart to correct Bonnie’s distortion of ‘pheromones’, Draco chuckles as Hermione blushes shyly.

“Hi, Bonnie. It’s nice to see you,” the brunette witch smiles. “Are you well?”.

“Right as rain, love. Come, let’s get you set up at your table,” Bonnie expertly bustles through the narrow gaps between the seating arrangements, as Draco and Hermione follow.

“Here you are, dears,” Bonnie sets down two menus and pats their hands affectionately after Draco sees Hermione securely seated. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Folding out his napkin onto his lap, Draco smiles boyishly at Hermione’s continued flush. “I have to say, Granger – I believe most of those ‘furrymoans’ Bonnie sensed were coming from you, at our last breakfast here,” he teases. “It’s not your fault, of course; my charisma is overpowering.”

“Oh, really?” Hermione recovers her equilibrium instantly, her mocha eyes glimmering with sharp amusement. “Let’s not tabulate who fell for whom first – and _hardest_ , Lord Malfoy. Just like our academic achievements… you’ll always come in second place.”

“As long as I come, Granger,” Draco leers, delighting in her little gasp. “But you first, of course, _ma petite_.”

“I won’t dignify your shabby innuendo with a response,” Hermione sniffs. She opens her mouth as if to comment further, closing it with a small snap as Draco cocks his eyebrow in query.

“Hermione? What is it?”.

“I– I was thinking about our conversation, at our first visit here… when we agreed to ‘a mutually beneficial, purely sexual liaison’,” Hermione slowly answers. “You said you definitely didn’t want – or need – a girlfriend, remember?”. She fiddles at her own napkin.

“Yes… because I had zero hope you would ever countenance the mere idea of being my girlfriend, much less the reality of it,” Draco confesses. “I couldn’t believe my luck when you took me up on my reckless offer – I wasn’t about to roll over and show you my soft emotional underbelly, Hermione. Not after I’d–” Draco clamps closed his runaway mouth, feeling his ears beginning to burn.

“You’d what? Please, Draco,” Hermione entreats, snugging her hands in his across the table.

 _Well, I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb._ Draco puffs out a few hard breaths before he continues speaking.

“Not after I’d yearned for you for over a decade – alright, after I’d hopelessly _loved_ you from afar for twelve years… and fucked up any slim chance I ever had of being worthy of you. No, I know – I know you’re going to say I was wrong, and I’m being too hard on myself. I’ll just say that I’ll never stop working on being the man you deserve, and that I am forever blessed to have you in my life… smack bang in the centre of it, Hermione.”

Swallowing hard, Draco keeps his eyes linked with hers as he hoarsely pronounces, “You are my wish come true, Granger. I’m sorry I was an overbearing blockhead during our first breakfast here; I was terrified you’d see straight through me and bolt for the hills,” he admits.

“But you also know that I’m a selfish bastard, and I was prepared to tie you to me by any cunning means I had… not that having sex with you was anything other than an absolute revelation,” Draco firmly proclaims.

“I said I wanted a monogamous liaison because even though I knew our arrangement was merely temporary – and that I would never have your heart – I sure as hell wasn’t going to share you with anyone… Merlin, just thinking of you in another man’s arms makes me want to kill,” Draco growls. “That ginger tosspot sniffing around you with his blowsy roses and substandard chocolates – he’s damned lucky I didn’t Transfigure him into a hagfish on the spot. Fucker.”

“Draco, you know Ron is firmly in my past – and you’re my future, right?” Hermione fervently states. “For the record, the very thought of sharing your favours with other witches made my gorge rise.”

“I’m sorry… the other women I’ve – been with, they were only ever pale substitutions for the witch I hungered for… for _you_ ,” Draco rasps. “I was– I was always too cowardly to tell you then what I’m about to say to you now, Hermione.” He pauses, gripping her hands a little tighter, as he marshals his thoughts.

“I never wanted anyone but you, Granger. I regret that I didn’t tell you any of this sooner… I rue that I was deathly afraid of being rejected, mocked, and vilified… and I’m forever grateful that it was _your_ courage that made us acknowledge our relationship for the deep connection we really do have. You can lord that over me until the day I die – I deserve it,” Draco sighs.

“I know I’m revoltingly sappy – constantly – but the truth is… I cannot get enough of you, Hermione. Mind, body, soul… even your mad, glorious, constantly-shedding hair,” Draco chuckles, hoping to lighten the intense mood of their discussion.

“You arse – I’ll lop it all off in a pixie cut and see how you like that,” she threatens, pretending to glower.

“NO! Don’t you dare!... I mean, you do whatever you wish, _ma petite_ ,” Draco hastily corrects his rash objection. “Please, _please_ leave your hair just as it is; I adore it. Gods, the daydreams I indulged in at Hogwarts! Burying my hands in your luscious locks… slowly trailing it across every inch of my naked body–”

“Have you had a chance to decide on your order, dears?” Bonnie’s brisk voice sounds from behind his shoulder, causing Draco to choke in horror. He fumbles for his water glass as Hermione smirks, appearing disgustingly pleased with his discomposure.

“Would you mind allowing us a few more minutes to decide, please, Bonnie?” Hermione smoothly replies. “Draco’s an awful ditherer sometimes.”

“Of course, lovelies,” Bonnie darts off again.

Hermione recaptures his fingers, slyly prompting, “You were saying? You’ve dreamt of my hair brushing your nude skin…?”.

“You’re wicked, Hermione: poking fun at your poor, pining, lovelorn suitor,” Draco tries and fails to look as piteous as possible, cracking up with a huge grin as Hermione laughs disbelievingly.

“No, I am– I was– I am! Um, one more thing… I knew you were lying, when you staunchly told me you didn’t want a boyfriend… I inadvertently sensed that, during our Legilimency session.” Draco unscrews and tightens the metal tops of the salt and pepper shakers, ducking his head slightly.

“Really…” Hermione’s response is dangerously non-committal.

“Well, as I explained to you at the time, the process is unique, depending on a number of factors, including the relationship and levels of trust between the participating parties…” Draco’s bumbling, pompous attempt to justify his actions fades out as Hermione presents him with an impressive poker face.

“And… I may have… not been able to resist having a little snoop – but I didn’t consciously intend to, honestly. I apologize, darling – and I withdrew as soon as I realized what was happening – erm, what I was doing.” Draco screws up one side of his face in a remorseful wince.

“Tell me exactly what you ‘saw’, Malfoy.” Hermione does not appear happy.

Draco flashes back to that pivotal night of Legilimency in Hermione’s apartment… _the first time I held her next to me… the first time I kissed her sweet lips._ The memories flood his consciousness with visceral intensity…

Turning up at her apartment, after having readied himself an hour earlier than necessary: nervously changing his blue cardigan for a suit jacket – and switching back again – no less than half a dozen times. Sweating like a racehorse, which in turn had caused him to take another shower, and effected a change of shirt.

Leaving the townhouse thirty minutes ahead of schedule, only to lurk at the corner of the block of flats until one of her neighbours had eyed him suspiciously from behind a twitching curtain: he’d had to cast a Disillusionment Charm to allow him to skulk right beside her door until precisely six o’clock.

Being so annoyed with his foolish, giddy behaviours that he’d acted sullen and decidedly prattish as soon as she’d answered the door. Trying not to notice how delectably pretty Hermione had looked in her dusky pink sweater and fantastically form-fitting grey leggings, her wild chestnut hair mostly constrained in a loose ponytail (which Draco had immediately envisioned wrapping around his hand as he plundered her luscious mouth).

Prowling into the kitchen behind her, reaching across to snaffle a bottle of water from her fridge, well aware she had been deliberately holding her ground against his invasion of her home territory… thoroughly relishing the light brush of her back against his front.

Sitting on her red velvet Chesterfield, knees almost touching, as he’d focused all of his skill and determined will into leading Hermione safely and effectively through her lost memories of that wretched night. Cuddling her close as her stress levels had risen, wrapping the cerise blanket around her quaking form and basking in the incredible feeling of rightness that had enveloped him from that simple touch.

Realizing Hermione’s true motivations for going on internet dates with Muggle men; sensing her unmet sexual needs and curiosity; noticing her disappointment and regret at the Weasel’s poor form, in bed and out.

Homing in on anything in her mind that he had sensed related to him, and her true attitude toward him; his incredulity growing as he’d discovered that she hadn’t truly hated him for all those years – that she had, in fact, battled an unwilling attraction to him.

His arrogant, dictatorial caution against Hermione continuing with any more dates (motivated in no small part by Draco’s scorching desire to build on whatever tiny spark of allure she still felt for him), resulting in their furious screaming match, and his reckless offer to act as her carnal tutor; unsurprisingly, being roundly reprimanded for his highhandedness, and summarily kicked out.

Giving in to the irresistible temptation to kiss her as he’d always dreamed – _just once_ – and the insane conflagration of their tumultuous clinch outside her front door, until his screaming conscience had somehow compelled him to step away from her fiery heat and raging passion. Wordlessly seeing her safely inside, before he had forced himself to assume a bodacious saunter into the dark of the night.

Going home, excruciatingly torn between concluding he’d completely screwed up any potentiality of a relationship between them, and clinging obdurately to the miniscule possibility that Hermione might not think him a unredeemed, rampant arsehole… that she may still harbour the tiniest of yens for him.

Reliving every second of their spectacular encounter again and again as he’d lain in his big, empty bed, the white t-shirt Hermione had worn hidden inside his pillowcase… her scent driving him slowly mad, as his Slytherin brain had carefully re-examined every snippet of useful information he’d unintentionally gleaned from the Legilimency.

 _Sweet Salazar – what an utterly magnificent memory._ Draco startles as Hermione’s voice interrupts his blissful recollections.

“Draco? Do you not wish to answer me?” Hermione cocks her head to the side as her cocoa eyes narrow speculatively. “Is your confession really all that dreadful?” she snips.

He refocuses his concentration to their discourse, striving to convey his sincerity with his response.

“Uh– that is – I told you, that I sensed you wanted a true partner. A man of equal intelligence, sharing similar interests, with a keen sense of humour… preferably a wizard, but that wasn’t as important to you as a loving, affectionate, honest and loyal boyfriend,” Draco gulps, as Hermione’s face grows stonier.

“Go on. I know you’re holding back: don’t.”

“Ah… you really wanted to be romanced, and cherished, and to be sexually adventuresome with a man you liked and trusted– and– and that when we were at Hogwarts… after I stopped slicking back my hair like Lucius, you thought I was hot, even though you wanted to hate me– and when you smelled Amortentia, you lied about it because you didn’t want to admit you also scented green apples and my cologne. I’m sorry!” Draco rushes to finish.

Hermione’s expression cycles through shock, outrage, and embarrassment… before settling on vexed acceptance.

“Is that all of it? Did you sniff out my most secret sexual fantasies, too? My deepest regrets? The time I angrily threw a rock in the lake – when Dad wouldn’t buy me another ice cream cone – and it struck a duck?” Hermione’s tone is deservedly scathing.

“No! You killed a duck? Never mind,” Draco hastily backpedals.

“I didn’t murder the duck! But I hurt its wing… I made Dad wade in to catch it, and we took it to a vet to be treated and cared for,” she defends. “And I never meant to harm it; I still feel terrible. I donated half a year’s pocket money to an animal welfare charity, alright?”.

“I’m sorry – sweetheart, please,” Draco leans across the table to delicately trace the curve of her pink ear with the tip of his forefinger, infinitely relieved when Hermione’s mulish expression softens a little. “I know you didn’t mean to injure the duck; and I am genuinely sorry I carelessly nosed about in your mind and memories.”

“Well… I appreciate your apology,” she mutters, pinning him with her severe topaz stare. “Please don’t do that again, Draco. You wouldn’t like me to go sniffing about your psyche, would you?”.

Draco shuffles his feet under the table. “No– no, I would not. You have my word, _ma petite_.”

Nodding firmly, Hermione flips open her menu. “Good. Now… don’t let me order anything other than a very light meal, please: I think my stomach has irreversibly stretched after yesterday’s constant feasting. You should have stopped me before I went after that lemon cake for the third time.”

“Hermione, I know better than to ever get between a woman and dessert,” Draco solemnly pronounces. “I value my life far too much to ever take that risk.”

“True. Draco… what do you think our mothers are together scheming about? I don’t mean their disturbing… sexual frankness,” Hermione doggedly continues, as Draco claps his hands over his ears.

“ _La-la-la-la-la!_ Nope, I can’t hear you,” he singsongs.

Pulling away his hands, Hermione scolds, “We all heard them! They’re up to no good, I just know it.”

 _I can’t tell her my mother is pushing for me to propose – well, not so much pushing, as bullying,_ Draco decides. _I refuse to allow Mother to ruin my timeline… I am **not** going to screw this up. _

To Hermione, Draco replies, “Sweetheart, there’s very little we can do about whatever conniving plots our mothers are cooking up, you know that, right? I fear that the best strategy we can employ is to not sit within hearing range of their collusion – and their filthy conversations,” he concludes.

 _‘The Limber Lobalug’ – if ever a term deserved to be Obliviated from my brain, that would be it._ Draco shudders as he unwillingly pictures his patrician parents going at it hammer and tongs. _Don’t, DON’T! Talk about an appetite suppressant._

“I don’t need to be a Legilimens to know what you’re thinking, Malfoy – _stop_. Quickly, talk about something else,” Hermione implores. They share a look of mutual horror, before giggling at the absurdity of the situation.

“It’s a proper delight to see you two smiling and laughing,” Bonnie stands beside their table, hands on plump hips as she smiles indulgently at their merry chuckles. “No more mopey solitary breakfasts for you, eh, Draco? This one’s a keeper, and I knew it from the start,” she pats Hermione’s shoulder with visible self-satisfaction. “You make sure you keep him on his toes, Hermione dear; Draco’s been gifted more charm than you can shake a stick at, but you’ve got his measure, I reckon.”

“Indeed I do, Bonnie,” Hermione snickers. “It helps that he’s been madly in love with me since he was eleven,” she brazenly declares. “He was cute even then – but a right little shit. It’s a good thing I love him so desperately, isn’t it?” Her mirth dies down as she gives Draco a look of pure adoration and joy.

 _Gods… if this be a dream, let me never wake,_ Draco fervidly prays. _You sweet, darling, magnificent creature, Hermione Granger… **My** Hermione. _

Bonnie’s mild sniffles taper off as she briskly dabs at her moist eyes with a huge striped handkerchief. “I keep telling my Clyde – there’s no need to be watching ‘Coronation Street’, not when I’ve all the drama and romance I need at the café! Eh, look at me blubbing – here now, tell me your orders before I dissolve into a big soppy puddle from watching you sweet lovebirds,” she commands.

Hermione goes first; Draco allows himself the luxury of watching her unobserved. Dressed simply in a long kelly green skirt and soft white blouse, she tucks a springy ringlet behind her ear as she intently listens to Bonnie’s explanation of the contents of the Bubble and Squeak special.

_She treats everyone as special, and worthy, until they prove themselves otherwise… and by some miracle, she’s decided I’m the man for her._

He isn’t aware of the huge grin wreathed across his face until Hermione imperiously questions, “Why do you look like the Cheshire Cat, Draco? If your smile were any wider, you’d crack your cheeks,” she ripostes.

“Oh, I’m just quietly worshipping the love of my life,” he revels in her rapid blush, and Bonnie’s appreciative sigh. “And looking forward to a lifetime of laying my heart at your feet, actually. Is that a problem, Hermione?”.

Shyly peering up at him from beneath her dark lashes, she lets the pause lengthen… _deliberately teasing me with her silence,_ Draco realizes. _Cheeky little coquette._ He holds his breath until she finally puts him out of his misery.

“Oh… I suppose I can tolerate that, Draco,” she cockily avers. “Carry on – I’m not going anywhere… correction: I’m never leaving you, _mon coeur_.”

“As if I would ever let you go now, _mon coeur et mon âme..._ My beautiful Hermione.”

Hands clasped tightly, they beam at each other as Bonnie digs frenziedly for her giant hankie again… mumbling good-naturedly about mushy young love being the death of her.

Draco winks saucily at her as he begins to speak his breakfast order.

* * *

_Sunday 23 March 2003: PM_

Pansy potters indolently around her compact apartment, pleased with her decision to spend the morning buying and installing a few new pieces of furniture. She fusses at the indigo cashmere throw rug folded over the arm of her new couch.

 _There was no way I was going to keep the brown leather camelback sofa – I definitely do not need any reminders of Ron Weasley’s recent odiousness in my sanctuary, regardless of how fleeting and meaningless our interaction was. Anyway, it_ was _a bit stark in here; the classic navy blue chintz snug couch and matching armchair are a refreshing update._

 _I wonder if Harry will like them._ The thought sneaks into her head and refuses to leave. Pansy presses her fingertips to her lips as she recalls Harry’s impassioned goodbye kiss, after he’d escorted her back to her flat after the Granger-Malfoy brunch ( _well, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, and supper, really. We didn’t end up leaving until well after sunset_ ).

 _Harry meant what he said, about wooing me; he’s consistently been wonderfully solicitous of my welfare – just as a boyfriend should be, I guess,_ Pansy muses. _It was lovely, having him come out to the back garden and sit beside me, chatting to Narcissa and Jane… holding my hand, and stroking my neck. A witch could certainly get addicted to that kind of devoted attention._

Pausing in her small décor adjustments, Pansy smiles wistfully as she remembers how Harry had refused to let go of their conjoined hands, even as she’d hugged Hermione and Draco goodbye _. Oof – I can’t believe I used to think he was putting on a goody-goody act, at school; he genuinely is a sweet, upstanding, caring man… which is just as sexy as that thirsty look he frequently gives me. Ay, caramba!_ Pansy grins widely as she recalls their torrid parting of the ways, last night.

She’d barely stepped out of her Floo before Harry had wrapped her up in his strong arms. He’d showered kisses all over her face like tiny meteors, each one leaving behind a flare of exhilarated heat. Pansy had given as good as she’d gotten, feverishly running her hands all over his powerful, wiry body… _with a special emphasis on his deliciously tight little butt,_ she remembers with a wicked smile.

 _And those spectacles of his… By Demeter, who knew she had such a glasses kink?_ Their increasingly impassioned kisses had knocked his lenses askew – _not that it had done anything but ramp up his appeal,_ Pansy thinks. She hisses out a slow breath as she admonishes her flaming lust to settle down; Harry had (sadly) stuck to his avowal of a slow courtship, leaving her riled up and panting as he’d climbed back into the hearth to travel to his own home.

 _He’s so endearingly earnest – so wholesome – but at the same time, sexy as sin with his tough Auror persona, and those vivid jade eyes._ Pansy wonders whether Harry would mind if she started calling him ‘Lightning Bolt’ again; but this time, the term would refer to his unquestionable ability to strike a fire in her loins – with a single, careful touch.

 _What’s that sound?_ Pansy sharply twists her head to check she is still alone, before she comprehends that the cheerful humming in the room is emanating from her own daffy mouth. _I don’t bloody hum,_ she scoffs. _Just because Harry invited me for dinner at Grimmauld Place tonight – that’s no excuse to start trilling stupid tunes like that odd, animated film the Elf Brigade were watching yesterday evening. Singing and dancing candlesticks, my arse._

‘Be our guest, be our guest, put our service to the test…” _No!_ Pansy folds closed her warbling mouth before she can launch into another verse. _I blame Potter for this rank display of girlish silliness… but damn, he does make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside._ _Can’t let_ that _slip to the man, though._

_I shouldn’t read too much into tonight’s dinner invitation… Harry said there’s no need to dress up, and he’s not sure when his work is going to finish today, anyway. I might draw myself a lovely warm bath… lots of bubbles, and perhaps I’ll light the water lily and hyacinth candles I gifted myself for my birthday last year… lovely._

Pansy turns for the hallway when her Floo activates; her heartbeat bounces as she immediately recognizes Harry’s ruffled dark head ducking out from beneath her mantle.

Her elated response (and swift step towards him) falters as Pansy registers the grave expression on the wizard’s handsome face. He shuffles nearer, his velvet-green eyes projecting apprehension… and deep sorrow. Pansy distantly notes that Harry is holding a small buff envelope against the right leg of his scarlet Auror robes.

 _It’s about the right size to contain photographs – and it’s also horribly familiar._ Pansy feels her throat closing up as an old horror reaches for her with sharpened claws.

“Pansy – please, sit down, love,” Harry urges, guiding her to the chintz couch. He tucks her quivering, hunched body into his side, softly kissing her temple before leaning back to speak.

 _Don’t – don’t say it. Please don’t say it._ Pansy tries and fails to shape the words aloud, as her tremors amplify.

“Oh, god – Pansy, I’m so sorry – Pansy, I’m sorry,” Harry husks, as she tries to evade his searching, knowing gaze, whipping her head from side to side, her silky black tresses tangling in his hands as he attempts to soothe her.

“N-No, no, I don’t– you can’t– I can’t–” Pansy croaks, through numb lips.

“Pansy – I have to tell you. No, wait,” Harry gathers her carefully as she struggles to bolt away – to escape the past that yet rises like the spectre at the feast.

 _I’ll never be free of this pain – never. I should have known that my flimsy, newfound happiness would be snatched from me._ Pansy covers her miserable face with shaking hands, clumsily pressing her whitened knuckles to the welling tears.

“Oh, darling, please, please let me help you,” Harry gently pries her hands from her cheeks, his own eyes reddened and damp.

“You can’t help me – just say what you came to say. Don’t drag it out – please, Harry.” Pansy focuses on the dark blue throw rug, spine rigid and breathing jagged. “Say it.”

“We found a huge stack of pornography in a hidden safe in Cormac’s hunting lodge today,” Harry expels the words in a burst, keeping his arms curled around her. “All kinds of it – I found this envelope full of photographs, shoved inside a Lust Potions book. And I – I recognized the child… I saw it was you, Pansy.”

“How– how did Cormac – get those pictures?” Pansy whispers. “I handed them to the Ministry – years ago.”

“We think Barry Bones sold them to Flint and McLaggen – they bribed him to frame Theo, and he must have been selling them whatever inside intel and foul material he could, for some time,” Harry’s face crumples in disgust and fury.

“They– did they– distribute the photos? They did, didn’t they?” Pansy violently wrenches herself out of Harry’s embrace, unsteadily pacing to the wall beside her fireplace. She totters down and against it into a heap, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking slightly, as she awaits his answer.

Crouching before her, Harry reveals, “I don’t know yet, Pansy. But I swear to you, I will track down every single picture, and every single scumbag who traded in this despicable filth – I’ll fill every cell in Azkaban with these evil bastards, if it comes to that. Hell, I’ll built another fucking prison, if need be. I want to make this right, love.” He roughly brushes a fat teardrop from the end of his nose.

“You can’t ‘make this right’, Potter. No one can. I tried – _I really tried_ – but the past never stays dead for long,” Pansy twists her lips in a bitter smile. “I should never have bothered to seek justice through legal means – not that it mattered, not in the end.”

Harry tentatively extends a hand, laying it softly on her knee. “What can I do, Pansy? Please, love – I’ll do anything. You need only say the word.”

“So you’ve… you’ve read… my file?” Pansy quavers. “You know all of it, then? Every last, sordid detail? I tried to warn you, Potter – I’m damaged goods. Something broke in me – _no_ – _I was broken,_ by an evil man, and my callous, unscrupulous, mercenary family. You should leave,” she abruptly flings out her arm to point at the Floo.

“Pansy, sweetheart– you’re not ‘damaged goods’ – you’re strong, and clever, and so very brave – please, don’t push me away,” Harry’s voice is agonized. “I’m not leaving you – I’m here for you, love. Always,” he vows, kneeling beside her now. “What can I do?! Please, Pansy.”

_I don’t want to be alone… I need help… I need my friends._

Pansy raises her thumping head from her knees to wheeze, “Please… get Draco… and Hermione. Draco knows – ask him to tell Hermione, Harry. Ask them to come. Please.”

“Of course– wait– ” Bounding upright, Harry rapidly produces his stag Patronus, uttering Pansy’s instructions in a clear, terse tone. Pansy watches dully as the silvery phantom hart elegantly exits her living room. Harry grabs the dark sapphire cashmere throw, settling it over her shivering shoulders with great care.

“May I make you a cup of tea? Hot chocolate? A glass of water?” he anxiously offers.

“No. Thank you,” Pansy woodenly replies. Her hand creeps out to touch Harry’s, before she can quell the impulse; he gladly threads together their fingers, softly kissing the pad of each little manicured fingertip.

“I’m right here, Pansy. I’m not going anywhere, love. May I hold you?”.

Sobbing quietly, Pansy dips a minute nod, keeping her weeping eyes closed. _I should have ripped out Cormac’s degenerate throat when I had the chance. The dirty, perverted, slimy piece of dung has violated me all over again. Now I understand how he happened to call me ‘Little Flower’ – it wasn’t a coincidence, after all._

 _I wish I’d stomped both of the bastard’s testicles,_ she savagely reflects; her tears ease slightly, as her wrath fires anew.

“We’ll get through this, together. I’ve got you, Pansy.” Harry sits down, mindfully cradling her on his lap. He adjusts the rug to fully cover her pale pink voile peasant top, before he smooths his hand down her hair (a little awkwardly, but with immense tenderness).

“Harry? Please don’t call in that Mediwitch – Martha, I mean. She’s pushy, and a pain in the bum,” Pansy grumbles, her words barely audible against Harry’s warm chest. “I don’t like her.”

“Alright, love. Martha stays at St Mungo’s.” Harry drops a delicate kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t worry, my valiant little Snake. I’ve got you,” he repeats steadfastly. “You’re safe, Pansy.”

Snuffling into his crimson robes, Pansy wishes she could believe Harry’s heartfelt declaration. Held securely against his comfortingly steady heart, she allows herself a tiny smidgeon of hope… like the flutter of a pigeon’s wings, silhouetted against a darkening sky.

* * *

**French translations:**

_mon coeur et mon âme –_ my heart and soul.

* * *

Credit to Howard Ashman and Alan Menken for the quoted lines from the song ‘Be Our Guest’ in the 1991 animated film, ‘Beauty and the Beast’.


	70. Avulsion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Megand2017.  
> I apologize for the last one making you cry; this one is rather sad, too (I'm sorry)... but there is a sweet Dramione scene at the beginning, again.  
> I appreciate your steadfast support and sweet reviews very much.  
> Thank you.
> 
> Many thanks to you all for reading and supporting this story.  
> 70 chapters... I was aiming for 30 at one stage... 🙄😬😊.  
> You guys keep me going, and I am so grateful.
> 
> This chapter contains more dark and disturbing material, so please heed the trigger warnings listed at the start.  
> If you'd rather not read it, please contact me on Tumblr (@valancyjane) and I will message you a summary instead.  
> 💚🤗💚 VJ

**** Trigger warnings: angst, past sexual abuse, pedophilia, memory loss, and child pornography****

****

_Sunday 23 March 2003: PM_

Hermione shifts the book in her hands from her right hand to her left, chuffing a contented sigh as she cosies into Draco’s warm torso. His back is propped against the arm of the pale blue couch, legs spread to accommodate her body between them. He smiles down as she smooches a little kiss to his white-and-grey striped Oxford button-down, aiming for his heart beneath the fine fabric.

“What was that for, Granger?” Draco marks his place in his own book with his pale forefinger, bending his head to kiss the tip of her nose. “Not that I’m protesting, mind.” He reverently combs her obscuring brown fringe away from her forehead, leaving his hand curled around her neck.

“You’re so beautiful, Hermione. Our– I mean– you’re simply stunning,” Draco clears his throat in a decidedly shifty manner.

“Wait – you were going to say something else, then.” Hermione is on his evasiveness like a hawk on a field mouse. “I thank you for the compliment – though we both know I’m ordinary-looking: don’t quibble, Malfoy. I want to know what you initially intended to say just then, please,” she lowers her hand to loom just below his vulnerable armpit.

“Bullshit!” Draco hotly denies. “You’re utterly, incontrovertibly _beautiful_ and I won’t ever tolerate you denying the fact – no, come on, that’s non-consensual tickling….!” He gasps as her fingers burrow into his sensitive flesh.

“Stop– stop– ” he catches her assailing hand, snorting laughter as she pretends to snap at his throat. “What a nasty little lioness you’ve become!”.

“You’re deflecting, Draco.” Sitting up a little, Hermione narrows her whiskey-brown eyes as Draco tries for ‘po-faced’.

“Ah – I meant to comment that our recent photographs together attest to your comeliness,” he glibly replies. The minutest shadow of a smirk plays around the corners of his mouth.

 _Pfft. Sneaky Snake._ Hermione glares suspiciously for a few more beats, before deciding to let the matter rest. _Draco will tell me, when he’s ready. Which reminds me…_

“Malfoy, may we talk? I’d planned to raise a few issues with you at breakfast this morning – but then you had to be all charming and sexy and cute, and I plumb forgot,” Hermione mock-grouses.

“Of course, _ma petite._ What’s up?” Draco wriggles a little to straighten his back, his anthracite eyes never leaving hers.

Hermione runs the bullet points through her head once more, nodding as she reaches the end of her list.

“Well, to begin: I start my new job at Hogwarts Monday week, and we’ve yet to decide on our adapted living arrangements… and you haven’t spoken with Minerva, yet.” Biting her bottom lip, Hermione quietly awaits Draco’s reaction.

Glancing at the page number marked in his book, he slides free his finger before placing the tome onto the flat arm of the sofa, turning back to grin artlessly at her.

“No, I haven’t had a chance… things have been a tad hectic the past week, you know,” he blithely underplays the dramas that have regularly beset their lives of late. “I’ll ask Headmistress McGonagall for an appointment first thing tomorrow. Next?”

Hermione plays with the top button of his shirt, quickly losing focus on her organized list as her insatiable yen for the man blazes. “Huh… next? Right – how shall we do this, Draco? Which do you think would be better: living at Hogwarts in joint quarters through the week, coming back to the townhouse for Saturday and Sunday; or the reverse? I suppose it depends on how things go when you speak with Minerva – but she assured me she would do everything in her power to enable us to live together as a couple…”

“Hey – don’t fret, _mon amour_ … we’ll figure it out,” Draco gently tugs away her thumbnail from her gnawing teeth. “If I’m unsuccessful in securing a position as an Arts Professor, or a back-up Potions teacher – or the artist-in-residence grant you claimed was a true possibility – I’ll throw myself on Filch’s mercy and become his caretaking apprentice,” he grandly declares.

“Oh, you’re a darling – and a smartarse – but we both know you wouldn’t last a hot minute working as a lackey,” Hermione sniggers. “Fancy the look on Lucy’s face if he heard of your new job mopping floors and griping about Peeves, though!”

“Well, I’d have the distinct advantage of using _magic_ to complete my chores,” a mildly aggrieved Draco contends. “I’m not the snobbish brat I once was, you know – in rehab, I even learned how to boil the perfect egg,” he boasts.

“Wow,” Hermione breathes, derisively batting her eyelashes. “I’ve always wanted to date an experienced Cooker of Eggs.”

“You jest – but it’s not as easy as one would think,” Draco defends. “Pro tip: don’t try to cook them in a microwave – I learned that the hard way. Talk about an egg-splosion!” He chuckles merrily at his own dubious humour.

 _Dreadful… that pun is beyond appalling,_ Hermione thinks. Aloud, she asks, “Have you been taking comedy tips from my father? Please don’t – that was a ‘Dad joke’ if ever I heard one, Malfoy.”

She waves her hand edgily as she reminds, “Seriously, though – what will we do, if you’re not offered work at Hogwarts? I don’t want to live without you, Draco… actually, I really can’t live without you,” she drops her eyes after rasping her heartfelt confession.

 _The mere prospect of not seeing Draco every day… of living apart from him – oh, I can’t stand it._ A strained breath whistles from Hermione’s lips as she struggles to regain her emotional equilibrium.

Draco tilts up her chin with a caressing index finger. “I can’t live without _you_ , Hermione – so that’s definitely off the table, come what may. If all else fails, I’ll just buy a nice place in Hogsmeade; I can paint anywhere, darling. I’ll have a hot meal waiting for you at the end of the day, and I’ll pamper you to my heart’s content, and when the babies come– ” he chokes off the rest of his eager words as Hermione’s eyes near bug out of her head.

“The babies?! You– you want to have children– with me?” Hermione jabbers, her heart near thumping out of her chest.

Draco’s mien of panicked fluster switches to annoyance as he scolds, “Hermione! Of course, _with you!_ Haven’t I told you that I belong to you, body and soul? Am I unknowingly speaking in Aramaic, or something? Do I need a translation spell? Should I hire a stonemason, to carve the truth of my affections in marble, and affix the tablets to the walls?” He scrabbles at his argent hair in a wild parody of exasperation.

“Sarcasm is oft considered the lowest form of wit, Draco,” Hermione stiffly rebuts. “Forgive me if I sometimes feel a little insecure – not so long ago, you did attempt to push me away by claiming you wanted your ‘accursed bloodline’ to die out, or something equally ridiculous.”

“I apologize – I was idiotically martyring myself to spare you the disapprobation of being with an ex-Death Eater, but you saw through my sham straightaway, in any case,” Draco quietly states.

Taking a huge, soughing breath, he avows, “I – I would love to have children with you, Hermione – I mean, no pressure, and if it doesn’t happen for us, that’s fine – there are always other options, and plenty of children needing foster care – or we could get lots of cats, and dogs, and maybe some guinea pigs,” he waffles, looking increasingly panicked.

“Guinea pigs?” Hermione echoes stupidly. Her heartrate is loping like a runaway thoroughbred.

“Ah, fuck it– before, when you called me out for prevaricating– well, what I was going to say was, ‘our babies will be the most beautiful children ever born, if they take after you,” Draco comes clean, his embarrassed pewter eyes never leaving her stunned carob ones. “I hope inherit all your genes– gorgeous, clever, little brown-eyed babes with copper curls and a complexion that doesn’t catch fire in the sunlight,” he weakly jests.

Hermione blinks slowly, joy crashing into her like a rough wave in the surf. Opening her mouth to express her ecstasy, she embarrasses herself when she is only able to emit a series of inane vocables.

“ _Unhhh_ – _whaaa_ – _hunhhhh_ – _beyyyyy_!” Gulping, she tries again.

“I want– I want that– all of that– not a menagerie, perhaps, but babies or foster kids and pets and coming home to you and– and our family– but I want beautiful, smart, white-blond babies like _you_ – _ohmigod_ Draco, I love you so!” Hermione clumsily pitches forward, peppering kisses to Draco’s beaming face as he tries to do the same. Bumping noses and foreheads, she stills as he slides his hands around her jawline, resting them behind her ears to kiss her deeply.

Their kiss is a perfect balance of soft and strong, as Hermione concentrates on imbuing the embrace with every last drop of love, hunger, and commitment she feels for her magnificent blond beau. The ambient noises of a lazy Sunday afternoon fall away as her senses centre wholly on the taste, touch, sight, smell, and sound of one Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Her hands tunnel through his hair, trace his ears, pat his nose, squeeze his arms, as her mouth lips, nips, and soothes. Short kisses, long kisses, kisses on his chin and cheeks and eyebrows. Murmured repetitions of ‘I love you’ and ‘I need you’ and ‘you’re mine… I’m yours’. Breaths exchanged and stolen, limbs tangling and hair tumbling as they strive to be ever closer.

Time floats like a drowsy honeybee, replete with nectar. Dizzy, Hermione yet protests a tiny whine when Draco gently uncouples from their embrace to speak in an frank, urgent whisper.

“Hermione… _ma petite_ , I have to tell you – I adore you. No matter whether our family grows to ten children and a dozen cats and dogs – or thirty guinea pigs – or if it doesn’t expand – I will always, _always_ love and worship you. Do you understand?” Draco asks, staring at her with a fierce, solemn tenderness.

“I do – and I feel exactly the same, Draco. I love you, _mon coeur… mon âme_ ,” Hermione avidly replies. She sits upright as the first part of his statement properly sinks in.

“’Ten children’?!” she snorts incredulously. “Very funny.” _Ha – he’s such a sly jokester. My funny darling._

“Alright – seven,” Draco concedes, looking anything but jocular as he nods decisively beneath her.

“Oh, hell to the no… unless _you_ intend to give birth to them?” Hermione scoffs, whipping her loose pekoe-brown ringlets from side-to-side. “That’s a Quidditch team, Malfoy.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Four.”

“Two.”

“OK, three it is,” Draco smugly guffaws, as Hermione picks up one of the cushions that fell off the couch during their impassioned clinch and pretends to smother him with it. “Mercy!” his muffled cry issues through the padded pillow.

“Bossy git,” Hermione grouses, as she tosses the cornflower blue cushion back to the floor. She sits back on her haunches, gazing soberly down.

“Draco – I might not be able to bear children… previous Healers suggested that the – Crucios that Bellatrix inflicted may have caused irreversible damage to my reproductive organs. I was too afraid to have my potential infertility confirmed, so I let it slide,” she tonelessly informs. “I should have mentioned it sooner, I guess.” Her neck droops and her eyes smart as they flick to the side.

“Come here,” Draco carefully guides her rigid form to pivot and nestle in his lap, his arms bracing around her. He glides his hands down the crown of her head to the ends of her curls in soft, cadenced strokes as he speaks.

“Hermione, I may have fertility issues of my own – I was regularly punished and used as target practice when the Noseless Demon forcibly turned Malfoy Manor into a Death Eater B&B,” he quips humourlessly. “When we do decide to try to become pregnant – when we’re both ready, of course, no pressure! – we’ll consult the best specialists from both worlds, and go from there… but if it never happens for us, we’ll be OK,” Draco promises.

“No: we’ll be better than OK; we’ll have each other, no matter what,” he croons. A pause, before Draco diffidently queries, “You’re not… I mean, you don’t think… you might be pregnant, already, do you?”.

“What?! No – if you’re referring to my belly pooch, that’s a dessert baby from yesterday,” Hermione yanks down the hem of the sorrel brown merino pullover Draco had given her at their first café breakfast, feeling somewhat put out by his inquiry.

“Sweetheart, I meant no offence; please don’t be cross with me for asking. I cherish your little tummy,” he bends to buzz a quick raspberry to her lower stomach, as she squeals and clutches at his back.

“Cut that out!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Draco smiles, jiggling her back into position on his splayed thighs. “No, I was merely checking… I wondered, after hearing Luna’s theories on Spring Equinox pregnancy statistics. Hey – we need to remember that our soul-bonded magic might come into play, too,” he nods to his left forearm. The Dark Mark is barely visible through the semi-transparent material of his white striped shirt.

 _Wow. I never even considered that… so much for being ‘the Brightest Witch’_ , Hermione muses. Mood considerably uplifted, she lets her happiness suffuse her face in a wide smile.

“You’re occasionally quite brilliant, Lord Malfoy,” she teases. “Try not to gloat, its unbecoming.”

She hurries to raise the next topic before she succumbs to kissing him silly once more.

“Draco, what are we going to do about Mac? Will you send him back to work at the Manor, to live with Ruibby? I guess he’s no longer needed to act as my bodyguard… and he is the Manor’s steward, first and foremost… but I love him dearly. I’ll– I’ll miss him terribly,” she wistfully remarks.

Sighing, Draco concurs. “Never repeat this – but I can’t envision living without the flamboyant little rascal, either. And I would prefer Mac to continue to act as your personal protection, until you begin your new job, Hermione. Please: though McLaggen and Flint are locked away, Potter and his team are yet to unravel all the sticky threads of that sick network. I refuse to take any chances with your safety, _ma petite_.” His beautiful mouth firms in an adamant line, waiting for her accepting nod.

“Excellent. As to the rest of Mac’s future… I wondered if we couldn’t strike an arrangement with McGonagall, for them to work at Hogwarts? It’s his greatest unrealized dream, now that he’s finally won the heart of the fair Ruibby,” Draco suggests. “Not immediately – he’ll need time to train his successor; I would suggest that either Mizrabel or Kevvy step up. Mother tells me they’ve both proven themselves eminently capable during his absence,” Draco concludes.

He cocks his silver head as Hermione chuckles.

“You’ve a house elf named ‘Kevvy’? That’s too precious,” her laughter bubbles higher at his non-plussed expression.

“Yes… Kevyn, in truth – but he prefers Kevvy,” Draco slowly explains. “Why is this so funny? You’re an odd little egg, sometimes.” His benevolent kiss to her cheek assures her he is only teasing.

“Sorry – I’m sorry, it just strikes me as such a Muggle name,” Hermione replies, as her sniggers ease to hiccoughs. “Mac (and Ruibby too eventually, I imagine) working at Hogwarts is totally perfect, Malfoy! I’ll include it in the list of topics I must review with Minerva… I have to set up that appointment for Gus – about Tavi’s admission letter – too.”

 _It’s going to be a busy week… just as I like it_ , Hermione reflects with considerable satisfaction.

“Yes – and if Gus needs any help covering the cost of Tavi’s schooling needs – clothes, wand, stationery, any special equipment relating to her cerebral palsy – charge it straight to me, or take it out of our Gringotts account, Hermione,” Draco orders autocratically.

“I’ve arranged for you to be granted full access to the Malfoy vault – skip all the demurring rubbish about not accepting it, we’ll go straight to the part where you dutifully say, ‘Yes, Draco’, and move on, darling. I would only ask that you not touch the heirloom jewellery until I’ve had a proper chance to – erm – cleanse it,” he qualifies, looking abashed.

Determined to not be boringly predictable, Hermione puts a pin in her astonishment at apparently being arrogantly gifted half a bloody fortune; she merely snips, “You’re too late: Blaise cornered me yesterday and made me promise to send all the bills for Tavi’s Hogwarts fit-out to him, Draco. He rather foolishly underestimates Gus’s driving independence and antipathy to rely on charity ever again, though.”

“Did he, now? Oh, that’s delicious – ‘The Rise and Fall of the Zabini Empire’ begins… it’s a wonderful time to be alive, Granger,” Draco unleashes a wicked ‘ _muahahaha_!’, before he lustily attacks Hermione’s sensitive lateral throat with his lips and teeth.

She writhes joyfully at his libidinous attack, shrieking playfully as he licks at her ear, eyes squinching in pleasure.

“ **Draco, Hermione – please come at once. We’re at Pansy’s apartment… I found the photographs she turned over to the Ministry, in McLaggen’s hidden safe. She needs you, both of you. Draco – Pansy asked you to tell Hermione everything, before you arrive. Please, hurry**.”

The unearthly projection of Harry’s tormented voice issuing from his regal stag Patronus (standing proudly before them) shocks them both.

Hermione stumbles to her feet as Draco jack-knifes upright. He is positively ashen after hearing the magical communication.

“Oh, fuck – oh, no,” Draco’s words are faint and agonized. He covers his pallid face with trembling hands.

Dread pools in her belly; their carefree domesticity scatters like autumn leaves in a brisk wind.

 _Whatever this is – it’s bad… really bad._ Hermione steels herself to remain composed, as Draco turns to face her. His expression is as grave as she’s ever seen it.

“Hermione, _mon amour_ … we’d best sit back down.”

* * *

“Has Pansy divulged any of her past history to you, Hermione?” Draco stares at his still-quivering hands, his voice low and pained.

“No… she’s hinted at a long estrangement, and past trauma… but she hasn’t gone into specifics,” Hermione admits. “I figured that she would tell me of it, when she was ready.”

“Fucking McLaggen – and Flint – if I weren’t already dreaming of their painful deaths, this would seal their worthless fate,” Draco growls. His savage expression conveys his violent sincerity. “I’ll personally petition for a return of the Dementor’s Kiss, mark my words.”

Slipping her cold little hand into his, Hermione entreats, “Just tell me, Draco. A problem shared is a problem halved, isn’t that how the saying goes?” she nudges his shoulder.

“It’s awful– absolutely horrific. I wish– I wish I’d done more – I wish I’d not been such a selfish, self-involved dickhead,” Draco castigates himself. He emits a deep, rattling sigh.

“I’ll keep this brief – Pansy needs us. She– she was sexually abused by her paternal grandfather, from the ages of about six, until she was twelve; he lost interest after she started puberty,” he raspingly informs.

 _Oh, dear lord. No. No. No._ Hermione grips Draco’s hand as hard as she dares, her heart breaking for her friend. She swallows convulsively, dreading hearing the rest – but knowing she must.

“I didn’t know – _truly know_ – the particulars, until we reconnected when I returned from my stint at the Parisian art school,” he rumbles on. “I suppose I shouldn’t have criticized the Weas– Weasley’s ‘Grand Apology Tour’ so harshly yesterday; I undertook a rather pathetic one of my own.”

Questions hover at the tip of her tongue: Hermione chokes them back. _Better to let Draco narrate this horror in his own way._

“When we were kids at Hogwarts, Pansy was always… clingy, needy, I suppose. I found it irritating, but I selfishly used her infatuation to prop up my flagging ego, and to further my self-delusion that I did not actually insanely crave a certain mouthy little Gryffindor.” Draco restlessly shuffles his feet beneath the coffee table. “I didn’t perceive that her abnormal behaviours were symptomatic of a much deeper, darker problem until we began to… experiment.”

He casts a worried, remorseful look in her direction. “I’m sorry – this is distressing –”

Negating his concerns with a firm headshake, Hermione instructs, “It’s fine – please, keep going. Really,” she insists.

“Well, whenever we… became intimate, Pansy would freeze… one moment she was an enthusiastic participant, the next – she’d become almost catatonic.” Draco frets at his flopped blond fringe with his unoccupied hand. “I’d stop – ask her what was wrong – and she’d just blink… like she wasn’t there at all. I guess she wasn’t present, not really. I wasn’t much of a Legilimens then, but even my raw ability sensed a massive, black wall slamming down in her mind.’

“I never went any further after she froze – and afterward, when she’d come back to herself – she’d deny there was a problem. After a while, I stopped altogether… with a few exceptions, usually to put on a show when I knew you were watching, or had Prefect rounds–” he stops abruptly.

“Draco, it’s OK – I need to know.” Inwardly, Hermione rolls her eyes at her boyfriend’s historic cunning.

“I need to wrap this up. I’m sorry, Hermione. I sought out Pansy when I came back to London, and she told me she’d stumbled upon her grandfather’s disgusting cache of photographs – documenting his pedophilia – of her, when she went to stay with him after the War. He’d drugged her most of the time, and her traumatized child’s mind had repressed the horrible memories, until she saw those pictures.” Draco reaches for Hermione’s other hand, holding both tightly.

“He’d become quite frail, and her parents had pressured her to act as his companion, though he’d always made her skin crawl… without fully comprehending why. When she found the photos, she spent a long, tormented night thinking of what to do… in the end, she placed her trust in the legal system. Pansy told her evil grandfather that she was taking the pictures to the DMLE, and she would move heaven and earth to see him prosecuted for his crimes.’

“She was true to her word, and turned over the entire revolting collection to the Ministry the next day. Some harried fool questioned her over and over, while she suffered through relating what few memories had resurfaced,” Draco whispers as he continues his monologue.

“Pansy went home to inform her parents; they greeted her with the news that her grandfather had been found dead at the bottom of his stairs with a broken neck. Her father looked at her coldly and told her they were aware of the scurrilous lies she’d been indiscreetly touting about a ‘decent, respectable wizard’ – and that she was – as of that moment – disinherited and cast out from their home. They’d known, Hermione – they’d known of the unspeakable atrocities her grandfather had committed, and they had traded their silence for his gold.”

Hermione doesn’t check the hot tears cascading down her cheeks. Draco roughly wipes his own streaming eyes on his sleeve.

“Pansy called them on it immediately, and though they never explicitly admitted their complicity, she could see the truth of it in their eyes. She had just enough money of her own to cover her living expenses while she fought a bitter legal battle to access her trust fund; once she had those monies, she set about creating her own business empire, with an emphasis on helping other women. She forced herself to undergo counselling, though she told me more than once that she detested ‘baring her soul in sixty minute increments’,” Draco smiles wryly.

“When she returned to ask the DMLE about the investigation, they flatly acknowledged that they’d shelved the entire affair upon learning of the death of her grandfather, and claimed there was insufficient evidence to try her parents as accessories to the crimes. She asked for the photographs to be destroyed, and was told they would be incinerated once the inquiry was deemed completed.”

“But they weren’t; and Barry Bones most likely dug them out to sell to Marcus and Cormac,” Hermione surmises, speaking huskily through her tears. “Oh, Draco – they’ve circulated those pictures, haven’t they?! Oh, poor Pansy…!” she cannot finish her sentence, her throat closing in empathetic distress.

“I fear exactly that, Hermione,” Draco buries his face in her quavering curls. For a few silent minutes, they share a close, comforting hug.

“Hermione – we’d better go. Are you– are you up for this? I understand if you’d rather I went alone,” Draco hesitantly offers.

“I’m sick to my stomach thinking of all that Pansy has suffered – but there’s no way I’m staying behind.” Hermione snatches at the box of tissues on the coffee table, blotting dry her red-rimmed eyes and blowing her nose with a decisive honk.

“Pansy needs us, and I am going to do everything I can to help her get through this, Draco. Whatever it takes,” she vehemently asserts.

Draco presses a grateful kiss to her tremulous lips.

“As will I, _ma petite_. Let’s go.”

* * *

The sound of the Floo has Pansy’s head rearing against Harry’s supportive shoulder. Her melancholy bottle-green eyes flare in alarm until she spies Draco’s distinctive platinum hair, with Hermione’s riotous mahogany mop right beside him.

“Hush, love; it’s just Draco and Hermione.” Harry cuddles her to his chest again; she relaxes infinitesimally, taking great succour from his tender embrace.

Hermione rushes forward, stopping a foot or so away before dropping down to perch beside them. Her arms rise, then drop; her uncertainty about whether or not to fold Pansy into a hug is obvious.

“Come on then, Pollyanna – I’m going to need a shitload of hugs tonight, so have at it,” Pansy croaks, impatiently waving Hermione closer as she leans out a little. Harry shifts his arms to enable Hermione to enwrap Pansy in a careful embrace.

“You call that a squeeze? You’ve gone soft, Golden Girl,” Pansy razzes, clinging fiercely to her friend. She senses rather than sees Draco come to her other side to add his own arms to the awkward four-way cuddle.

“Bet you never dreamed you’d be voluntarily hugging Harry Potter, huh, Draco?” Pansy knows she is using humour to mask her vulnerability… _but fuck it – whatever works_. She cackles scratchily at Draco’s caustic reply.

“This doesn’t leave this room, right? You can take it as proof positive that I love you dearly, Pansy,” Draco pronounces, with unmistakable feeling. “We’re here for you, Pans.”

“Never took you for a snuggler, Malfoy – but you’re not half-bad at it, I suppose,” Harry goes along with the joke, keeping his tone light and dry. “I guess I can understand why Hermione keeps you around.”

Pansy feels her nutty heart swell afresh at Harry’s overt willingness to prop up her failing spirits. _By Morgana… this man really is extraordinary. He’s so sweet… and patient… I’ve no idea why he thinks me worth the effort, but I’m not about to point out the error of his ways._

Raising her head and opening her sore, tear-burned eyes, Pansy smiles wanly at Hermione. “Hey, Pollyanna… do you feel up to sitting with me a while and listening to me sobbing out my sad story? I’ll even let you plait my hair, if you insist,” she wisecracks.

“Lead the way, my Slytherin sister,” Hermione bobs to her feet, holding out her hand. Pansy slowly unfurls from Harry’s lap, bestowing him with a fragile smile and hoping she doesn’t look as haggard as she feels. Both men treat her as though she’s made of spun glass, helping her to stand upright.

Wending her arm through Hermione’s proffered one, Pansy begins to sluggishly walk in the direction of her bedroom, pausing after a few steps. Turning her head, she catches Harry’s intent glance, as the men follow behind.

“Harry? Can you… can you please stay? If you’re not too busy, I mean,” she quietly modifies. “I’d… I’d like to talk with you, after Hermione.” She holds her breath for a mere fraction of a moment before Harry vigorously nods his assent.

“I’ll be right here, love. I won’t leave you,” he promises, candour apparent in his every word and gesture. “May I make you a pot of tea? And perhaps bring you some biscuits?” he asks, his hands creeping to scrunch at his untameable raven-black mane.

“Yes, please,” Pansy surprises herself with her affirmative response. “My favourites are the Cartwright & Butler Strawberry and White Chocolate – they’re in a pink packet in the pantry.”

“Take Draco with you – he was recently bragging of his domestic talents,” Hermione drolly advises. “Apparently he’s an ‘Egg-xpert’ in the kitchen.”

She snickers as everyone else groans. “Listen – Lord of the Manor started with the ‘egg’ puns, I’m just trying to balance the books.”

“Hermione, I sometimes wonder if your humour gene has been irreversibly adulterated by too much study,” Harry good-naturedly gibes. “It’s the kind of ‘witticism’ I’d expect from Barney, honestly.”

“’Adulterated’ and ‘witticism’… steady on, Potter, anyone would think you actually went to school, instead of spending the majority of your magical education saving the world from a megalomaniacal monster,” Draco chimes in affably. “How are we to maintain our traditional enmity if you continue to ‘improve your mind by extensive reading’?” he winks at Hermione as he paraphrases the classic Austen line.

“Oof – that’s enough of your wordy flirting, you pair,” Pansy fakes pettish grievance. “And by that, I mean you and Harry, Draco,” she deadpans.

“Nice one, Pansy,” Hermione lifts her hand for a congratulatory slap. “”Our wizards don’t stand a chance, thinking they can mix it up with us on the witty repartee front,” she sniffs dramatically. Both males mutter unintelligibly by way of retort.

They have arrived at Pansy’s open bedroom door. Pansy stills, her upbeat façade withering as she contemplates recounting her pitiful, sordid tale.

Hermione exchanges a significant look with Harry, who moves forward to loosely encircle his arms around Pansy. The Gryffindor witch walks into the room, while Draco retraces his steps back toward the kitchen; the couple clearly want to allow Pansy and Harry a measure of privacy.

“Please… look at me, Pansy.” Harry waits until Pansy lifts her sad eyes to meet his compassionate regard. “You needn’t feel obligated in any way to tell any of us anything you’re not comfortable discussing, yes? I’ll sit with you in silence for as long as you need me to, love. And never mind the demands of my job – I’m not the only Auror in the damned place. You come first, do you hear me?” he earnestly avers.

Harry’s mouth hovers near her own; Pansy cannot resist the temptation. She stretches to bequeath a delicate kiss – as ephemeral as a soap bubble in the sunlight – before shyly retreating.

Gazing at her worshipfully, Harry fleetingly brushes his thumb across her lower lip.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me, Pansy.”

Unable to speak, Pansy minutely tips her chin in acknowledgement; her jade eyes are woebegone as they follow his exit from the room.

Harry makes a final pledge before he closes the door.

“I meant what I said before, love. We’ll get through this, together… I promise.”


	71. Affinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Someonesdottir.  
> You've supported this fic since the start, and I appreciate your readership and sweet comments so very much.  
> Thank you! All the Kit Kats are for you, dear 🍫💗🍫💗🍫💗🍫.
> 
> Especial thanks to my patient beta reader @Recoveringjaddict, and to @sweeteangel for researching and providing the absolutely stellar French insults and profanities. I am dying to use them in person 😉.
> 
> Happy Holidays! I wish you all a safe and peaceful season.  
> Your readership has been a joyous, wonderful gift to me all year.  
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.  
> 💖😘💖 VJ

****Trigger warnings: angst, mention of past sexual abuse and trauma****

****

_Sunday 23 March 2003: PM_

"No, not that one, Potter– grab the Assam, Pansy prefers it in the afternoons,” Draco instructs, as Harry fumbles about in the well-stocked tea box in the pantry.

The exasperated blond elbows Harry aside, reaching for the brown-packaged loose leafed tea himself. “You’d best stick to boiling the kettle – and don’t pour in the water straightaway, you’ll burn the leaves.”

“Yeah - I knew that, Malfoy. I’m not a complete Philistine,” Harry defends. “One teaspoon per person, plus one for the pot, right?”.

Draco merely raises his sceptical eyebrows before grunting his assent.

The two wizards settle into their allotted tasks: Harry notes that Draco is obviously familiar with Pansy’s compact but stylishly functional kitchen. Harry’s busy hands briefly still as the horror of Pansy’s past threatens to overwhelm him.

_My poor, plucky, spirited darling_... Harry gulps and shudders, trying to hide the sounds of his distress with a manufactured cough.

“You can go to water later – when Pansy’s not around,” Draco observes (though not unkindly). “I’m not attacking you – Merlin knows, it’s horrendous, and heartbreaking – but push it aside as much as you can, for now.”

Leaning back against the stainless steel benchtop, Draco crosses his arms before fixing Harry with a shrewd stare.

“As Pansy’s oldest friend – and as her family – I must ask you, Potter: what exactly are your intentions toward her? Lower your hackles, I’m asking in earnest. You've a hero complex wider than the Amazon; I wish to ascertain that this isn’t some pet project you feel compelled to undertake, alright?”.

Biting back his first, sharp retort with considerable difficulty, Harry forces a couple of calming breaths. The irony of Malfoy repeating his own aggressive query when he first realized the blossoming relationship between Hermione and Lord Haughty isn’t lost on him.

_He’s an arrogant bastard... but he has a point, I guess. And he clearly cares deeply for Pansy._

“I- Pansy is important to me, Malfoy... _very_ important,” Harry stresses, carefully selecting his words. “I’ll be here for her, for as long as she needs me. Unless she asks me to leave – I’ll be her rock. I swear it.”

“Good. I expected you’d say that.” Draco lifts a finger in stern warning. “But if you let her down – in _any_ way – you’ll name your second for wands drawn at dawn. Got it?”.

Harry’s mouth thins. “I got it.”

They engage in a wordless stare-off for a few moments, before Draco turns to select a couple of pretty green floral tea cups and saucers. He eyes the larger, plain blue mugs, his pale hand hovering over the nearest two.

“Do you want a hot drink, Potter? I’m making myself a cuppa – with a tea bag, the Assam is for the girls.”

_I’d prefer something much stronger… but that will have to wait until I get home tonight._ Harry rubs his hand over his developing stubble, weariness hitting him like a Bludger to the temple.

“Yeah – please. Strong, sweet, a splash of milk. Ta,” he tacks on.

Harry sticks his head back in the open pantry, easily spotting the biscuits Pansy had requested. _She loves strawberries… it’s her signature scent, and those Chocoballs she gifted me…_ Harry hands the cookies to Draco before his shaky fingers drop them.

The burble of the simmering kettle masks Draco’s next words.

“What? I didn’t hear you,” Harry questions.

“I said – how much do you know? About Pansy’s past?” Draco repeats. He turns, catching Harry’s involuntary blench and bobbing Adam’s apple.

“It must have been a bad shock… seeing those photographs,” Draco quietly adds, fixing his attention back on the tea preparation. “I can’t imagine how harrowing that was for you… even if you have been trained to move past the muck and filth to get on with your job.”

“Yeah – it– it was rough,” Harry chokes. “The first photos, you couldn’t see her face – but then – _her eyes,_ Malfoy. I nearly threw up… I still don’t know how I managed not to.”

Draco waits for the squealing kettle to reach its boil and subside, before answering, “Pansy didn’t confide in me until after rehab, and Paris. I held it together at the time… but fuck, I wanted to drink myself into a monstrous stupor when I went home that night.” A muscle tics beside his left eye.

“Her parents knew, Potter. Her grandfather paid them off. The Ministry claimed she couldn’t prove their complicity – and now the DMLE’s grossly let her down. Again.” Draco’s upper lip peels back as he snarls, “If you don’t throw the book at that slimeball Bones, I will personally find a way to tear him a new arsehole. With a rusted spoon. _Putain de bordel de merde!_ ”

Rage rushes into Harry like an incoming king tide. Had he still been holding the packet of biscuits, they would have been pulverized by his hands instinctively clenching into taut fists. The delicate tea cups rattle on their matching saucers as his infuriated magic swoops about the small space.

_Her parents knew… they **knew** … they sold her innocence and trust to a devil… oh, Pansy…!_

“Steady on, Harry! Don’t ruin the tea, it’s almost ready,” Draco cautions, arranging the accoutrements on a silver tray he’d located in a lower cupboard. “I’ll take this in; then you and I are going to have a serious discussion, in the lounge.”

Once Draco has whisked away the tea things, Harry grips the sink, opening his mouth in a silent scream, head bowed and shoulders heaving. He allows himself only a minute or two of emotional release before Malfoy returns.

_You have to be strong for her – this isn’t about you, no matter how much you yearn to seek revenge and somehow remove her pain. That’s not possible… but you **can** and you **will** offer all your support, and understanding. Keep it together. _

“Grab the rest of the bickies, Pansy said we could have some,” Draco picks up the mugs before he strides down the hallway in the direction of the living room. “Hurry up, Chosen One.”

_Git_. Choosing to ignore the gibe, Harry snatches the packet and follows Draco down the corridor.

* * *

Pouring the tea with deep concentration, Hermione isn’t aware she is poking out the tip of her tongue until she notes Pansy copying her silly expression, exaggerating her frown and crossing her eyes in a gentle parody.

“I do _not_ look like that, Pansy – I am the very picture of grace and elegance,” Hermione snootily points her nose in the air, channelling Draco at his lordliest. “’My father will hear about’ – oh, shit!” she quickly blots at the spilled tea on the silver tray, while Pansy sniggers.

“You forget, I’ve met your father – he’d be delighted to hear of me poking fun at your ‘Very Serious Tea Etiquette Face’,” Pansy smiles. “Thanks, Pollyanna,” she accepts her cup.

The women sip daintily at the hot cha; rather than make her friend uncomfortable by continuing to scrutinize her melancholy demeanour, Hermione takes the opportunity to gaze about the bedroom.

_It’s not at all what I expected… Well, what_ did _I expect?_ Hermione ponders. _Probably sleek lines and designer austerity: the more modernist, fashionable version of Draco’s Scandinavian décor._

Instead, Pansy has decorated her most personal space in a tranquil blend of florals and Victorian prints: soft pinks, deep blues, and complementary purples… _It’s ‘Laura Ashley’ style,_ Hermione decides. Romantic English designs with a nineteenth-century rural feel. The walls are papered with tiny clusters of cranberry wisteria, linked by vines and yellow-green leaves. There is an antique pink and ivory washbasin and pitcher set atop the wooden dresser, and the heavy dark wooden panel four poster bed carved with serpentine shapes is dressed in a ruffled cream and lilac quilt. An abundance of thick pillows in matching linens are piled against the tall headboard.

_This room is a peaceful, personalized sanctuary,_ Hermione thinks admiringly. _Perhaps the one place where Pansy allows herself to just ‘be’… without feeling the need to polish the hard, shiny shell she presents to the world._

“Do you like it?” Pansy diffidently asks, picking at a lump of white chocolate on the biscuit in her hands. “I know it’s a bit… different… but I love it.”

“Pansy, it’s simply gorgeous. I feel honoured that you’ve shown me this part of you… that you trust me enough to share your inner sanctum with me,” Hermione warmly replies. “Thank you.”

Mouth full of strawberry cookie ( _from_ _which she probably took a deliberately large bite to avoid having to answer,_ Hermione reflects sadly), Pansy gives a jerky little nod.

Nibbling at her own delicious biscuit, Hermione waits for Pansy to speak. The other witch keeps her viridian eyes on her tea cup, sipping slowly.

“Hermione… t-thank you. F-For coming over,” Pansy stammers, expelling a harsh breath. “I guess Draco told you what happened to me.” The brunette witch finally raises her eyes.

“He did. Pansy… I’m so very sorry, for all your suffering,” Hermione risks reaching for Pansy’s cold little hand, clasping it loosely in her own. “You’re utterly amazing, and I want you to know that I am so proud of you. I’m incredibly proud to be your friend, and I love you dearly.” She lets the ungoverned tears drip down her cheeks and nose as Pansy’s swollen eyes well upon hearing the heartfelt sentiment.

“Bloody hell – not even ten minutes in and we’re both b-blubbing,” Pansy yowls, groping blindly for the box of tissues on the bedside chest of drawers. Hermione yanks a handful for herself before passing over the whole box.

“Sorry – _bugger it_ – I thought I’d sobbed myself dry in Harry’s arms,” Pansy miserably announces. “Hermione… I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not meant to be happy – every time I think my life is chugging along smoothly and I’m beginning to feel _right_ … something like this blindsides me. I mean, first there was Ron, at the Gala; that shitbag Cormac using me as bait; and now this atrocity– ” she husks.

“I’m terrified that Harry is still hanging around because he’s simply a nice guy, and he… he _pities_ me. I loathe being pitied, Hermione – I absolutely ABHOR it!” Pansy flings a clump of damp tissues on the floor.

Shuffling down on the bed, Hermione bangs into Pansy a trifle clumsily; she grabs her distressed friend in a tight side-hug. “No, no, no, and NO! You listen to me, Pansy Parkinson: this sucks, and you don’t deserve any of it – EVER – but you _are_ meant to find and enjoy happiness, OK?” She shakes Pansy lightly.

“And as for Harry pitying you – Pansy, he’s crazy about you – he’d walk through Fiendfyre for you, truly. Harry pities the vulnerable, abused, hurt little girl he saw in those dreadful pictures; but right now, he’s in agony because he wants to take away your pain and right your wrongs, and he would literally do anything to make that happen. He adores you, Pansy. You’d better get used to it… when Harry loves you, he loves _hard_.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione looks into Pansy’s wide, bloodshot jasper eyes. “I know you’re not ready to hear that right now – but I just want to say, I’m thrilled that you’re willing to let Harry support you through this. We’re all here for you, whatever you need.”

Wiping tenderly at Pansy’s streaming wet cheeks with another tissue, Hermione appends, “Just quietly… I happen to know an excellent lawyer, who’s looking for a complex civil case (involving the historic redress of old wrongs) to sink her teeth into – pro bono, of course.” She pretends to polish her short nails with an imaginary buffer. “No pressure, though.”

“I’ll – I’ll keep that in mind, Pollyanna,” Pansy wraps her arm around Hermione in a quick, affectionate headlock. “I’m not quite ready to go down that route; but I think that maybe… with you guys helping me – I might reconsider it… soon. Thank you.”

Pansy sighs as she says, “I wish – I wish we’d been friends, at school… well, I know it wouldn’t have been possible, not with me being Queen Snake-Headed Bitch and you the Gryffindor Princess–”

“I detest that term – how ridiculous, honestly,” Hermione grumbles.

“ – but I’m just so– so glad you’re my friend, now. Oh hell, I said ‘glad’ – you’re rubbing off on me, see? Disgraceful,” Pansy jests. Her expression sobers, her eyes pensive as she quietly petitions,

“Hermione… does knowing about– about what that man did to me… do you see me differently, now? Like... do you think I’m… damaged? Or– or dirty?” Pansy slouches, tension bowing her slim shoulders.

“No, not at all… I see a strong, valiant, intelligent and successful young witch who has found a way to move past the harm inflicted on her; a woman who is living her best life, and is willing to lean on her friends – no, we’re your _family_ – to help her through the rough spots,” Hermione answers without a moment’s hesitation. “You’re a survivor, and you’re flourishing.”

She keeps her tone as easy and even as she can, despite the anger coursing through her at her dear friend’s insecurity and deep hurt. _Pansy needs to hear my sincerity; she needs to know that my support and love are unqualified._

“I– I appreciate you saying that,” Pansy whispers. “I want to explain… after I went through therapy (when my repressed memories returned and the sick family poop hit the fan), I decided I wasn’t going to let that man have any more power over me – or over my sexuality.” She pushes out a hard breath.

“That’s why I prefer – _preferred_ – casual sex. I took back that bruised, beaten, stolen part of me, Hermione; I clawed back my right to feel safe in my own body, and to make my own sexual choices. I’ll never let him win.” Pansy’s face glows with tenacious purpose. She laughs softly at herself as she adds, “I didn’t have a chance to tell you, at brunch yesterday: Harry wants us to ‘get to know each other’ before we have– I mean, before we make love,” she pinkens sweetly.

“Erm… Mac might have mentioned it – oh, not the waiting part, just that he busted you two necking like teens on his bed,” Hermione hastens to explain, as Pansy’s blush turns fiery. “That’s lovely, Pansy – see how invested Harry already is, in your relationship?” she gently prompts.

“Relationship’?! Oh – well – yeah, alright, we’re in a relationship.” Pansy begrudgingly admits. “And that little squealing pig Macdolas should apply for a job as the town crier, the rascally gossip.” Her tolerant smile cancels out any sting in her observation.

“I’ve little doubt that will be memorialized as one of his next outfits du jour,” Hermione chuckles. “I swear that the extravagance of Mac’s costuming is designed in direct proportion to Draco’s exasperation with the over-the-top elaborateness of his apparel.”

Both women snicker as the theory. Pansy scrubs at her face with the tissue, removing the last of her tears and runny eye makeup.

“By Aphrodite – I’m a proper mess, aren’t I?” She Accio’s a pretty silver-backed hairbrush from the dresser, leaving it hovering before Hermione’s hand.

“I was promised a plaited hairdo, Pollyanna; and perhaps you could help me pick out an outfit that doesn’t scream ‘angsty and traumatized’?” Pansy commands. “Well, I’ll choose the clothing, you can fix my hair and tell me pretty lies about how the redness in my swollen eyes really makes the green pop.”

“Hmmm… now that you mention it…” Hermione cocks her head in jest, before taking possession of the expensive hairbrush.

“Harry invited me to dinner tonight; I’m going to go over there and have a nice meal with my new boyfriend… and maybe ask him to cuddle me for a goodly portion of the rest of the night,” Pansy determinedly states. “But first – a shower. You get started on the outfit, and I’ll be sure to find fault with your selection when I come back,” she pinches Hermione’s arm affectionately.

“Hey, I’m stylish – look at my beautiful merino sweater!” Hermione makes a token protestation, pointing at the fine brown garment.

“That’s Draco’s, I recognize it of old,” Pansy dismisses. “He loves giving you clothes – he’d order you a whole new wardrobe if he didn’t know you’d hit the roof and donate the whole kit and kaboodle to charity just to prove you aren’t with him for his dosh. You crazy kids,” Pansy ribs with a smirk.

“Go on – have your shower, and stop razzing your friends with eerily accurate remarks and predictions,” Hermione orders.

“Thanks, Hermione. For everything. You’re rather awesome… for a lowly Lion.”

“Coming from a slippery Snake, I take that as the highest compliment,’ Hermione slips off the bed to envelop Pansy in a light, candid hug.

She pulls back to quietly pronounce, “You’re going to be OK, Pansy… because you’re a total boss, and you’ve got this; _we’ve_ got this. Together.”

Pansy meets Hermione’s clumsy fist bump with one of her own as she softly agrees, “Together.”

* * *

“Tell me, Potter – what’s your plan? Have you thought that far ahead, or are you intending to wing it and hope for the best, in true Gryffindorian style?” Draco can’t resist the taunt (though he does tone it down to ‘lightly mocking’, in deference to the unpleasantly fraught vibe of the day).

Harry’s face tightens. “Can you not say my name in that insanely fucking aggravating manner, Malfoy?! Call me Harry – even _you_ can’t snob that up overmuch.” He pauses a beat. “And if you don’t consider us to at least be reluctant friends by now, you’re not half as smart as I believe you are.”

Draco finds himself in the unusual position of being rendered more or less speechless. He gulps down a mouthful of tea to cover his mild stupefaction. _Friends… with Harry Potter… well, that’s going to stick in Lucius’s craw like an ill-chewed apple. Heh._

“As to your rude query: in regards to Pansy, I won’t physically leave her side unless I’m positive she has all the support she needs, from me, or you guys, or the rest of the group. As for our relationship… unless Pansy explicitly states that she doesn’t want me around – I’m sticking to her like super glue. That’s a strong Muggle adhesive,” Harry describes, noting Draco’s dubious expression.

He grimly expounds, “In terms of the investigation: I’m going to go after everyone – EVERYONE – involved in this disgusting network, and I’m going to fucking ruin them. Including her revolting parents. There are laws in place to protect innocent children – the Parkinsons are equally as culpable as her vile, repulsive abuser.”

“I’m due to interview Flint and McLaggen this week – as soon as the Veritaserum orders have been signed off on – and I am going to turn them inside out for every last scrap of information. Literally, if it comes to that.” His hands clench around his blue mug of tea in a way that has Draco fearing for the continued structural integrity of the slim handle.

“Pott– Harry. I know where you’re coming from, and I sympathize; Merlin knows, I wanted to dig up that evil, sick excuse for a man simply to reanimate him and kill him all over again… but that doesn’t help Pansy. If you don’t put her well-being and needs first, you’ll lose her.” Draco leans forward, determined to get his message across to the angry young wizard perched precariously on the blue chintz snug.

“When Pansy first told me everything, I near went off my trolley ranting and raving about getting revenge and bankrolling a legal case against her foul parents,” he reveals. “It was more about me being a macho dickhead than genuinely supporting Pansy. She called me on it immediately, and told me in no uncertain terms that if and when she wanted me to take affirmative action, she’d advise me of it herself – and to stop running around half-cocked like a testosterone-poisoned fool.”

Harry flumps back against the back of the sofa; Draco can almost see the lightbulb illuminate above his head.

“My advice to you is this: listen to her, offer her anything practical you think she might appreciate, and simply be present and engaged. Pansy will tell you if you’re being unintentionally overbearing, or if she needs more space. And since we’re – buddies now, I’m going to gift you some Pansy Parkinson summary notes. Do you need to write them down?” Draco prompts, hiding a smile as Harry looks by turns contemplative, shrewd, surprised, and fascinated.

_Damn, he’s got it bad for her – serves him right for being such a smug bastard when Hermione and I first got together. Karma’s a wheel,_ Harry _._

“I won’t forget. Go on then… pal,” Harry rips back. “I’m all ears.”

Setting aside his empty mug, Draco taps his fingers against his lips before he launches into his lecture.

“Pansy’s favourite colour is black; she likes Darjeeling tea in the morning, Assam in the afternoons, and mint in the evening. Her favourite flowers are not pansies, though she likes them well enough; she adores pink peonies. She’ll eat strawberries until the cows come home; her favourite cuisine is Italian; and she’s highly allergic to bee stings – she carries a Muggle EpiPen with her at all times. She loves Old Hollywood movie stars like Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, and she used to secretly dream of having a tight-knit little family with a man who worships the ground she struts on.”

Draco crimps his smile at Harry’s dazed reaction to the information overload. “I did warn you to take notes,” he reminds with a hint of asperity.

Flouncing an irritable hand in the air, Harry replies, “I told you I’ll remember, Draco. Thanks… and thanks for coming over so promptly. I was– I was really worried about Pansy. I judged you harshly at school – I thought you were using her – but I was wrong, and I apologize.”

It is Draco’s turn to appear flummoxed as Harry holds out his hand; he grips it firmly in a brief shake. “I _was_ an arse to her, at Hogwarts; but she’s always been my friend, and she always will be. Thanks… Harry.”

They awkwardly look at anything but each other after the odd exchange of quiet acknowledgements. Draco hurries to fill the conversational void.

“Erm… I was wondering if you could grant me a favour? Not straightaway, perhaps… I know how busy you are. Actually, forget it – I’ll figure it out on my own.” Draco stands, collecting their used crockery.

Harry stubbornly hangs onto his mug as Draco tries to take it. “Hold up – what’s the favour? Don’t be coy – I’ll simply ask Hermione and she’ll weasel it out of you in two minutes flat,” he threatens.

“No! Leave it, I said,” Draco snips. “Forget I mentioned it.” They tussle for the mug again. Draco fleetingly wonders if they both look as stupid as he feels, grappling for a blue cup.

“You can have it once you ask me the favour – c’mon, how often in my life will I be able to gloat over that particular sentence?” Harry asks, grinning broadly.

“Alright! The thing is… _I-want-to-learn-how-to-cast-a-Patronus_ ,” Draco wiffles in a rush, scratching the back of his reddened neck with the hand not holding the cups. “Go on – laugh. Just give me that wretched mug.” _I should have kept my overeager mouth shut, he dourly decides._

Harry eyes Draco speculatively, finally handing over the blue beaker. “Have you never tried, before?” he asks, curiosity leaking through his tone.

“No – there’s the little matter of the legend of Death Eaters being devoured by maggots swarming from their wands if they try to produce a Patronus,” Draco acerbically responds. “I figured that you’re the best around – aside from Hermione – and if it’s true, watching me be magically consumed by my own poor spellwork would be far less traumatic for you than her,” he divulges.

“Draco – you were never a true Death Eater. You’re not a dark wizard, and I’m one hundred percent confident your wand and person are safe from an occult maggot attack,” Harry rises to follow him down the hallway. “I’ll help you with it, as soon as I can carve out some spare time. And to set your frightened little mind at ease, I’ll even hit the books about counter-spells… well, I’ll ask some of the senior Aurors,” he modifies his promise.

“Keep your voice down – if it works, I want to surprise Hermione with it,” Draco hisses.

“Yeah – you’re welcome, you big snoot,” Harry mutters. “I’ve got a condition of my own: you teach me some of those French curses you like to spout, Draco; they’ll come in handy at the Ministry.”

“Deal. But you’ll have to work on your accent, Harry – I’d wager it’s utterly atrocious.” Draco guffaws at Potter’s affronted expression.

He nearly smashes the mugs on the floor when Harry snaps (in perfectly enunciated French), “ _Je te nique ta race sale fils de chien!_ ”.

“You– how– where did you learn that?! You just called me the son of a dog and told me to go fuck myself!” Draco sputters.

Harry looks obnoxiously pleased with himself. “Fleur Delacour-Weasley coached me on that little gem for weeks. Pretty good, right? She wouldn’t teach me anything else, though – she said she hadn’t the time nor the patience.”

_Smart woman._ A few stray chuckles escape Draco’s throat at the thought of their strange bargain.

“Grab a dishtowel, and I’ll start you off on some easy stuff, appropriate to your place of employment. Repeat after me… _‘C’est des conneries!_ ’”.

“ _Said de Connery!_ ” Harry dutifully mangles the phrase.

Draco pulls a pained face. _Oh, hell. I think I got the short end of this stick, after all._

* * *

Waving her goodbyes, Pansy waits until Draco and Hermione have disappeared in a puff of green smoke before turning to Harry.

_Why am I so nervous? He did already invite me… **and** he held me tenderly on my lounge room floor while I cried piteously for a good half an hour. Ugh, I feel so vulnerable… but that’s OK. Harry won’t hurt me. _

_Harry won’t hurt me,_ Pansy silently reiterates _. Isn’t it funny – not ‘ha-ha’ funny, ‘peculiar’ funny – how certain I am that this wizard would rather cut off his right thumb than deliberately harm me? What did Hermione say…? ‘When he loves you, he loves_ hard’ _? Oh – not that I’m presuming he loves me, that’s ridiculous… but Harry does care for me. Not only does he speak it; he **acts** it. My instincts have long been telling me to trust him… and they’re absolutely correct._

Sucking in a steadying breath, Pansy blurts, “Harry – does your dinner invitation still stand? I’d like– I’d love to see where you live, and share a nice meal. I mean, if it doesn’t inconvenience you…”

The joyful smile on Harry’s face by way of reply makes Pansy giddy. They simultaneously rush at each other; Harry lifts her a few inches off her feet in a small swoop, before he attentively plants her securely back on the floor. _Look at me – being all girlish and shit,_ Pansy laughs at herself. _Ginger Rogers, eat your heart out._

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to come – of course, I’d be delighted, Pansy,” he beams. “Would you mind if we had a less formal meal? Maybe just a simple pasta dish, on the coffee table in the small lounge? It’s still chilly enough to light a fire… I think you’ll like that room. No shrieking bigoted old portraits in there, and the furniture was constructed before 1801,” he quips.

Standing back a pace, Harry’s gaze lingers as he belatedly inspects her appearance. “You’ve dressed up… you look beautiful, Pansy,” he solemnly praises. “I feel work-stained and scruffy by comparison,” he gestures ruefully at his Auror robes.

“No – you look handsome – you always look handsome, Harry.” Pansy’s mouth seems to have a mind of its own. _Stop gushing, you ninny. But oh… he’s blushing! Damn, he’s cute… eh, settle down, witch._

She smooths at her ivory, off-the-shoulder, half-sleeved, loose midi-dress, pleased with its dual effect of lifting her spirits and attracting Harry’s admiring glance. Hermione had proven herself more than competent in the hair-styling department, working Pansy’s razor-straight locks into simple side braids that join up in the back, giving the look an extra bohemian touch.

Pansy’s efforts to project a careful nonchalance are blasted to smithereens when Harry slides his arms around her waist.

“May I kiss you, Pansy?” he asks, emerald eyes nervously blinking behind his glasses.

Nodding, Pansy thrills at the feel of Harry’s silky black hair as she slowly glides her hands behind his neck, letting her manicured nails graze his scalp as she gently combs the shorter hairs there. His mouth unhurriedly descends to hers; the first skimming brush of his warm lips leaves hers tingling sweetly. She shuffles closer to initiate the next smooch, pressing a little firmer, the very tip of her tongue tracing the tiny indent in the middle of his bottom lip. Harry groans faintly as her breasts nudge against his hard pectorals.

_This ‘getting to know one another’ caper has much to recommend it,_ Pansy thinks happily. _A relaxed, leisurely romance seems truly perfect right now, actually. Not that I would ever use Harry to forget my pain… but his presence is brightening the darkest of my shadows._

They break apart, eyes shining and breath a little frayed. Harry’s strong hands squeeze her hips, before he releases her completely, offering his arm instead.

“Shall we– Floo– um– would you like to leave now, Pansy? To go home – to Grimmauld Place, I mean?” his voice rises in pitch as he flubs his request.

“Great,” his relief is obvious as she nods. “I know it’s early, but I need to speak with Kreacher about the change in menu, anyway.”

“That’s fine, Harry,” Pansy smiles. _Was he always this adorable, and I mistook it for a calculated attempt to charm? Probably. Harry James Potter couldn’t be guileful unless the fate of the world depended on it, I’d say._

Keeping a tight hold on Harry’s bolstering arm, Pansy steps into the hearth.

“Lead the way… boyfriend,” she bashfully whispers. She catches a quick glimpse of Harry’s delighted visage, before closing her eyes to Floo to his home.

* * *

**French translations:**

_Putain de bordel de merde!_ – Fucking hell!

_C’est des conneries!_ – This is bullshit!


	72. Endearment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @AdelaideFey.  
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting, and I hope you and your kiddos (peanuts) are enjoying a lovely festive season.  
> 🧡😊🧡 VJ.

__

_Sunday 23 March 2003_

“Please, have a seat, Pansy – I’ll just have a quick word with Kreacher. Make yourself comfortable, love, I’ll be right back. Would you like a drink? We have… OK, I don’t know what we have, but Kreacher can bring whatever you’d like,” Harry jabbers.

 _At least Walburga’s bitch portrait stayed blessedly silent when we walked past. Well, Pansy_ is _a Pureblood, I guess. But so is Ginny – and Walburga always had something cutting to say about her when we were together._ Harry decides to leave that thought cluster alone for the moment.

“Just some water please, Harry,” Pansy rearranges the folds of her pretty white dress, her eyes curiously wandering the small parlour that Harry thinks of as his private bolthole. “This is a nice room… I like the vibe,” she quietly remarks, glancing quickly at him before dropping her eyes.

Harry manages to stop himself from blurting, ‘Ginny didn’t much care for it’; instead, he smiles his relief. “Thanks, Pansy. I’ll get the fire started when I return. Would you like to pick out some music?” he gestures at the old Muggle record player.

“Oh – yes, I can do that.” Pansy jumps to her feet and skitters in the direction of Harry’s extensive record collection.

 _She’s nervous, too… this is our first proper ‘date’,_ Harry reflects. _The Gala certainly didn’t count._ He allows himself a few more moments to admire her, while she is focused looking through the stacked vinyl.

The freshening shower and skilful makeup has masked most of the physical signs of Pansy’s pain; her beautiful eyes are still a little swollen, and her smiles a trifle sad… but Harry is gladdened by the returning gleam of determination and strength in her tourmaline-green eyes, and her improved posture. _She called me her boyfriend… gods, that felt good,_ Harry remembers, a slow smile spreading across his features.

Just before he departs the den, Pansy quietly petitions, “Harry? Please… can we not speak of– of before? Can we try to be a witch and a wizard on a simple date… just for the rest of the evening? I’m all cried out; Hermione really knows how to touch your heart, doesn’t she?”. She smiles wanly.

“That she does – and of course we can do that, Pansy,” Harry instantly concurs. “I’ll be right back.”

He ducks out of the room before he succumbs to his urge to scoop her up and kiss her silly. _Go slow… slow as a sloth… and definitely no pressure of the amorous variety._ Harry repeats the mantra as he approaches the kitchen.

Kreacher is bustling about the narrow space; Harry thinks the elderly elf is talking to himself until he glimpses Boadie tucked into the knotted sling on Kreacher’s torso. The little black kitten occasionally mewls and swipes playfully at whatever Kreacher is carrying, earning an indulgent, ineffectual scold.

“Hallo, Kreacher. I brought back Pansy,” he starts. “She’s had a rough afternoon: would you mind if we changed the menu to something simple and comforting, like macaroni and cheese? And perhaps some ice cream and fresh fruit, for dessert? She loves strawberries,” Harry explains, as Kreacher’s sparse brows beetle.

“Mistress Parkinson has been harmed?” he sharply enquires. His gruff tone makes the kitten emit a warning hiss, tiny claws poking through the ropes of the sling.

“Yes – she’s alright, but I can’t tell you more, not without her permission,” Harry hedges. “She’s coping, but I would like to make this evening as pleasant and relaxing for her as possible, hence the comfort food. If it’s a problem, I can head out for a quick takeaway– ”

“No! Master Potter need not worry, Kreacher is wholly capable of providing a simple meal to cater to Mistress Parkinson’s tastes,” he grumbles. “Kreacher has not yet begun to prepare the supper.”

Harry diffidently confirms, “If you’re sure…”

Irritably waving him away, the geriatric elf gently pushes Boadie back into her harness, thwarting her attempt to slash at Harry’s red robes. “Would Master Potter prefer to eat in the dining room, or the Potter Parlour?” he refers to Harry’s den.

“The latter, please, Kreacher. Nothing too formal tonight, we’ll save that for another date.” Harry tries not to blush as the elf shoots him a narrowed, speculative stare.

A long pause elapses. “Master Potter woos Mistress Parkinson… properly?” Kreacher probes. Something that once resembled a smile creaks fleetingly across his weathered visage. Even the cat looks mildly pleased as she licks her diminutive paw and begins to cleanse her triangular black ears.

Harry mumbles, “Yeah – she’s my girlfriend,” before he flees the weirdness, heading to his bedroom to quickly bathe and change.

* * *

Pansy is surprised at how much she is enjoying her light snoop around Harry’s cosy little parlour. It clearly wasn’t deliberately designed or decorated with any pre-planned thematic consistency, but the organic result is nonetheless welcoming and charming.

The little stone hearth (which isn’t Floo-connected) is already laid for a fire; Pansy sets it alight with a quick point of her wand. The modest, licking flames add to the ambience created by two mismatched pedestal lamps dotted at opposite corners of the room. The furniture is comprised of an old, deep burgundy diamond-tufted leather two seater couch, a brandy-brown upholstered recliner, a small desk and plain wooden chair, a sturdy bookcase, and basic shelving for the extensive record collection.

Spying a flash of Gryffindor red, Pansy cranes her neck; there is also a collection of memorabilia and a few knickknacks at the very top of the bookcase, almost out of sight. The desk holds two framed photographs and a chipped mug with quills, biros, and chewed pencils stuffed inside. The walls are painted a warm light bronze, with a faded red, brown, and cream rug covering most of the dark wooden floorboards. The single window has mid-green drapes half-opened to the lowering twilight; Pansy is contemplating the narrow view of the quiet streetscape when Harry returns.

“Hey – you started the fire,” Harry comments, ruffling his unoccupied hand through his damp sable locks and looking slightly disappointed. He hands her a tumbler of water, from which she takes a quick sip. Pansy lets herself appreciate how boyishly handsome Harry looks, in his dark blue jeans, navy sweater, white tee, and socked feet.

 _Boyish – but all man._ Her eyelashes shutter half-closed as Harry fidgets at his hair again, causing the sweater and shirt to ride up, revealing a delectable band of toned midriff. _Damn… down, girl._ Pansy relaxes her suddenly tight hold on the glass and takes a short, centring breath, placing the tumbler upon the desk.

“Mmmm… I didn’t realize a simple _‘Incendio’_ was solely your domain, Harry,” she teases. “I can douse it though, if you like…?” she pulls her holly wood wand from her dress pocket, waggling it playfully.

“Ha – I guess I just wanted to show off a bit,” Harry grins. “Ignore me, I’m nervous… I really want to impress you, Pansy. You know… with my basic spellwork and motley old house,” he jokes, moving nearer until merely a foot separates their bodies.

“Wait until you see me get bossed around by my recently cat-obsessed ancient elf,” he shrugs ruefully. “ _And_ his beloved new pet – the little horror tried to scratch me when I got too close.”

“Harry, she’s a kitten: that’s what they do,” Pansy chuckles, slapping his chest… and letting her hand linger. _He’s really bulked up since Hogwarts… I guess Auror training and Quidditch keep him this (marvellously) fit. Ahem._

“Quidditch – do you still play Quidditch?” she squawks, mortified to realize she’s been enthusiastically groping his pectoral muscle; but as she tries to pull away her hand, Harry’s shoots out to hold it in place. His strong heartbeat thumps against her palm like a drum.

He steps closer again; Pansy can smell his piney soap. _I bet he does use a plain old bar of soap…_ her mouth dries as she instantly imagines him efficiently rubbing the fragrant cake all over his wet, naked, strapping young body… _Sweet Circe, I need to settle down._

The shadow of a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth as he replies. “Yes – pick-up games, with friends and colleagues… anyone we can rope in, really. I didn’t know you were such an avid fan… of Quidditch, Pansy.” He fits his work-scarred hands confidently to her hips, thumbs gently rotating against the top of her innominate bones.

 _The sly bastard is flirting with me… well, if the apprentice thinks he’s ready to approach the master…_ Pansy brings up her other hand, trapping both between their chests. Tossing her hair, she widens her eyes before blinking slowly.

“My interests are wide… and varied, Harry,” she breathes, not needing to feign the husk in her voice. She licks her top lip with the tip of her tongue, glorying in his choked inhale. “I’m happy to discuss them; I’m sure we’ll find plenty of… common ground.”

“R-Right– um, have you picked an album? To– hear, I mean, to listen to?” Harry blathers, squeezing her hips once before his hands drop to his sides.

Pansy slides her fingers down his torso, delighted with his fluster. _Ten points to Slytherin…_ She ignores the fact she’s managed to rile up her own fascinated desire, as she steps back to answer, “I haven’t really looked yet, Harry… You’ve quite the collection?”.

“Yeah… it’s mostly seventies and eighties classic rock/pop. Sirius told me my mum was really into Muggle music, and she got my dad interested. He gave me a couple of their favourite albums… that’s how I started the collection. Barney gifted me some old records, too… it’s kind of a hobby, I guess.” Harry’s shoulders hunch as he crouches in front of the deep shelves, his lean fingers fondly rifling through the vertically-stacked vinyl.

“You should choose, Harry. Pick something… pleasant,” Pansy entreats, capitulating to the need to thread her fingers through his glossy black hair. His head bows; she strokes his vulnerable neck, loving his little shivered response.

Pressing his head against her hand a final time, Harry turns away to rummage through the lowest tier, confidently selecting an album with a brown cover depicting four small figures dressed in white and spotlighted in a crowd. He rises, deftly setting the record upon the turntable and expertly descending the needle.

Hands sheepishly stuffed in his pockets, he speaks quickly, before the first notes of the song drift into the room. “Sirius said I used to love this song, when I was a baby… I’d clap in my crib and smile when they played it. It’s called ‘Super Trouper’, by ABBA – they’re a Swedish group, they were huge popstars…”

He bashfully peers at her from beneath his rumpled jet fringe, holding out his supplicating hands. “May I have this dance, Pansy?”.

She nods avidly as the joyful singing voices begin, before walking into his arms. Harry initially holds her as though she’s made of glass, until she makes a protesting sound and lays her head against his shoulder. They move easily together, Pansy letting the happy music wash over her like cleansing rain. She trembles as Harry softly kisses the crown of her head.

“You feel like– like coming home, Pansy,” he whispers beside her ear. “I love dancing with you.”

Pansy habitually deflects, “I think that – technically – we’re swaying, Harry.” He stills for a moment.

“I meant to say… I love dancing with you too, Harry,” she gulps. “This is a very sweet song; thank you for sharing it with me.”

“You’re welcome, love.” Harry hums the chorus, as Pansy relaxes further in his sure embrace. _There isn’t much room for proper dancing in here,_ she thinks with a small smile. _I’d rather sway with Harry Potter than foxtrot with Fred Astaire, in any case._ She closes her eyes, revelling in the intimate moment.

 _Gryffindors, with their huge, reckless, ever-expanding hearts… I’ve become a bloody fool for the Pride of Red Lions. I have to heal my own wounds, of course… but knowing this amazing man is right by my side is going to make such a difference._ She stifles a sob, as the song draws to a close.

Flicking a finger toward the stereo, Harry turns off the music. Tipping up her chin, he gazes intently into her damp eyes. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he worriedly asks.

“Nothing– I– I trust you, Harry. That’s all,” Pansy rasps, lacing together her hands at the small of his sinewy back. “This is… _you are_ … just what I need right now. Thank you.”

He smiles at her guilelessly. “Thank you for trusting me, Pansy. I promise I won’t let you down.” Sombreness rolls through his jade eyes as he quietly adds, “I need you too, you know. When I’m with you… I don’t know how to express it, I’m not good with words, like Hermione… but I feel like I don’t have to be anyone but who I want to be. With– with you.”

 _Well, hell… ‘not good with words’…?? I’d be absolute putty in his hands if he ever decided to hone that skill._ Pansy covertly blots her wet eyes with the back of her palm, pretending to fiddle at her plaits. “Will you play me some more of your favourites, please?” she murmurs, needing a change of subject (lest her emotional equilibrium completely capsize). “This ABBA band – did they have many other hits?”

“Did they – did they ever!” Harry energetically replies. “If you like ABBA, you’ll love Fleetwood Mac – well, they’re a bit grittier, but then again, ABBA weren’t scared to tackle the harder stuff; they were two married couples, you see, and when their marriages both broke up around the same time, their personal strife was reflected in their songs…” he leads Pansy to the two-seater couch, continuing his light, educational patter.

She nods encouragingly in the right places, content to indulgently listen and watch attentively as Harry selects half a dozen albums, showing her the covers like a proud schoolboy displaying his treasured collection of Chocolate Frog Cards. _He’s so sweetly earnest…_

Harry eventually decides on the next album; he begins the record player again, before plonking down on the sofa and folding his arm around her shoulder.

“This is ‘Rumours’, by Fleetwood Mac. It’s sad and contemplative in parts, but I think you’ll enjoy it – it’s considered one of the greatest albums ever made,” he gushes. “Why’re you smiling at me like that?” he nuzzles at her neck, as Pansy giggles.

“You’re so cute, chattering fervently about your tunes,” Pansy pats his cheek patronizingly as Harry pulls her onto his lap, faking a few growls and nips at her razzing. “No! _Ahhh_ … I mean it, you’re a darling, Harry.” Pansy tremulously kisses his parted lips, drawing back as insecurity makes her doubt her actions.

“Don’t stop, love… let’s snog like I’ve snuck you into the Gryffindor common room late one night,” Harry teases. “Or better yet – you’ve smuggled me into the Slytherin dungeons, well aware I could have my skin hexed clean off by a nest of angry Snakes,” he speaks something intense-sounding into her skin.

“What– what was that?” she gasps, as he attacks her neck purposefully, sucking a tiny bite into her pulse point.

“I said, ‘You’re incredibly sexy, and smart, and strong,” Harry mutters, licking at the newly-created hickey. “Kiss me, Pansy… please.”

 _Gladly,_ she concludes, matching thought to action. The rich blend of raw and romantic acoustic/electric music pulses in the background; Pansy grows bolder with every enthralling touch of her mouth to Harry’s. She sits up, swinging over her leg; her pretty ivory dress grants her just enough width to plant her knees on either side of Harry’s legs. He whines into her jawline as she shifts closer, sliding against the stiffened fly of his jeans.

Hiking up and down in miniscule increments (timed to the music), Pansy smirks down at the panting brunet wizard. “You wouldn’t have lasted a single hot minute in the Snake dungeon – not unless I declared you untouchable and under my protection,” she boasts, fingers possessively gripping the back of his messy mop. Spurred by impulse, she demands, “Do you need your glasses to see me? As close as we are now?”.

“No – but I look weird without them,” Harry warns, scrunching his nose. His hands carefully but surely rove her back, up and around in eccentric circles, occasionally dipping to the top of her buttocks, before gliding up again.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Pansy states. He remains static as she plucks off the round spectacles, placing them carefully on the square coffee table. “Harry… your eyes are gorgeous,” she asserts, quickly becoming engrossed in their radiant green depths.

“They’re almost the same shade as your eyes, Pansy… but yours are simply stunning.” Harry straightens, gently persuading her head forward until their mouths are level. He kisses her with heart-stopping tenderness, his heavy-lidded eyes never leaving her face.

Pansy is on the verge of considering impatiently divesting Harry of his sweater and t-shirt when a hoary elfish cough grates from the doorway. She covers her mouth as she tries to steady her jagged, aroused breaths; Harry swears _… in_ _French?_ , pointing his wand at the stereo to turn it down.

“Kreacher knocks, but Master Potter’s and Mistress Parkinson’s attentions are… otherwise engaged,” he impassively observes. “Dinner is served,” he magically sets down a large silver cloche upon the coffee table, followed by crockery, cutlery, and two snowy cloth napkins. He lifts the lid with a dramatic whisk, revealing two bowls of aromatic, creamy macaroni and cheese.

Pansy dismounts Harry’s lap to sit demurely by his side. She suppresses a snigger at Kreacher’s stern expression as he studiously avoids looking at either of them directly. With a snap of his bony fingers, he conjures a bottle of red wine and two goblets into position.

Leaning over to inspect the vino, Pansy nods approvingly before passing it to Harry. “Spanish Grenache; nice choice, Kreacher.”

Bowing low, he imparts, “Master Potter will summon Kreacher for the dessert course. Enjoy,” he shuffles from the room as silently as he entered.

Harry fumbles for his glasses, plopping them on his flushed face before proceeding to grapple with the cork of the wine bottle. Working it loose, he fills each wineglass with the rich red liquid.

“This looks lovely, Harry; and perfect, for tonight,” Pansy cups his knee warmly. “I… I’m sorry, I know we agreed to go slow… I got a little carried away, and I’m probably not ready for much more at the moment…” she trails off, biting her lower lip.

“Hey – you have nothing to apologize for, Pansy. I apologize– I didn’t mean for things to get so heated – it’s hard– no, no– I didn’t mean, _it’s_ hard– _uhhh_ – oh, shite–” Harry slaps his palm to his forehead in embarrassed frustration.

“ _It_ felt hard, to me,” Pansy cannot resist baiting him a little, as Harry turns a fetching shade of puce. “Relax, Harry… I’m messing with you. Shall we get started?” she picks up her wineglass to toast.

“To… better days.”

“To better days… with my beautiful girlfriend,” Harry clinks his goblet to hers, before they tuck into their meal.

* * *

_Sunday 23 March 2003: PM_

“What on earth is all that racket?” Draco queries, as they arrive home. “Are we being burgled?”.

Hermione frowns, moving quickly in the direction of the commotion. “Draco, I think it’s Mac and Ruibby arguing – in his room.” Her suspicions are confirmed as a door slams; a little blonde whirlwind with tear-stained cheeks charges down the corridor toward them.

“Ruibby – whatever’s the matter? Has something happened?” Hermione gently snags the upset elf’s arm, staying her headlong dash. “Are you hurt, dear?”.

“Ruibby wants to go home – Ruibby doesn’t wish to speak of her relationship discord,” she sniffles. Draco silently hands over his white handkerchief; Ruibby bobs a curtsey before she swipes it fiercely over her wet little face.

“Thank you, Master Malfoy. Ruibby apologizes for the disturbance, but must away.” She tugs free of Hermione’s loose grasp, just as Macdolas emerges from his bedroom.

“ _Ma chérie_ Ruibby! Please wait, Macdolas must tell you–” he shrills, jumping about as he tries to fix his mis-buttoned shirt front whilst running to her.

“You have said enough, Macdolas of the Clan Fhionnlaigh. Ruibby begs you not to follow her; she requests time to process Macdolas’s inflexible opinions. Good eve to you, and to Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger.” Keeping her head held regally high, Ruibby spares Macdolas a furiously miserable glance, before snapping her fingers and Disapparating. The last swish of her full peach skirts echoes in the tense air.

Macdolas sticks out his trembling chin and works his mouth open and closed a few times, before snapping it sealed and hurtling back into his room. Hermione winces as the door bangs shut again.

“’The course of true love never did run smooth’,” Draco facetiously quotes, rolling his neck and shoulders with an aggravated sigh. “Teenagers – what utter pains in one’s arse.”

“Draco, they’re both very upset,” Hermione chastens. “Do you want to talk with him, or shall I?”.

“Flip a coin?” Draco wryly suggests. “Never mind, _ma petite_ ; I’ll speak to him.”

“No… I think I’d better, actually. You could use some space, to deal with your lingering (though undeserved) guilt over Pansy’s pain and suffering,” Hermione quietly comments. “I need to inform Macdolas of the whole terrible affair, anyway; Pansy asked me to tell our group, including the elves. She– she doesn’t want them to learn of it second-hand, if it leaks to the newspapers.”

“Merlin – I didn’t even think of that fresh hell,” Draco groans. “I’m alright, Hermione. We can chat with Macdolas together.” He moves behind her, lightly resting his chin on the top of her head.

Shifting a little to look up at him, Hermione shakes her head. “Mac might feel better with just me; and I do think you could use the time to work through your reactions and emotions, _mon coeur_. Perhaps you could sketch for a while, or work on something else in your studio? I’ll be fine. Promise.” She taps her lips for a kiss, relieved when he complies.

She constricts her arms around her gorgeous, pensive boyfriend in a quick hug, before moving away. “See you soon, Malfoy.”

The weight of his perturbed gaze follows her as she knocks softly on Mac’s door, entering as soon as she hears his croaky assent.

 _Maybe speaking with Mac will help me with my own distress and anxiety over poor Pansy,_ Hermione hopes. _But first… eleven romantic drama._

Mac is sprawled face-down on his unmade bed, his posture eerily reminiscent of all the times Hermione has witnessed Harry and Ron brooding; she quells a smile at the similarity. Sitting close enough to pat his quivering back, Hermione says, “Would you like to talk about it, Mac? Sometimes a different perspective can help you get a handle on your problems.”

A prolonged pause, before Mac mumbles something incoherent into his tightly-clutched pillow.

Hermione waits, continuing to pat his shaking shoulder.

Moving gingerly, Mac finally props himself upright, turning his woebegone little face side-on; his bright auburn hair is both mussed and flattened. Hermione is surprised at how plain his outfit is today… a cream-and-brown striped shirt with a white collar, black trousers, with the matching black waistcoat and jacket flung over the end of the bed.

“Macdolas apologizes to Her Grace for the unseemly display in the hallway,” he mutters faintly, as his whole face reddens. “Ruibby is most aggrieved with Macdolas… she says we are at a crossroads – and that Macdolas prioritizes his career over his heart, to the woeful detriment of our love.”

 _‘Crossroads’? ‘Career over heart’??_ A puzzled Hermione smiles encouragingly. “I’m listening, Mac.”

Arms folded rigidly across his front, Macdolas tonelessly explains, “Ruibby asks Macdolas about their future… Ruibby asks Macdolas to return to work at the Manor because she misses him, but Macdolas must honour his commitment to the House of Granger-Malfoy, and yet protect Her Grace Lady Granger. And… and Macdolas must be sending back his increased salary to his cherished mother in Scotland.”

A fat tear leaks from his squinting left eye, noiselessly plopping onto the crimson bedspread. Hermione gathers him into a sympathetic hug. “Oh, Mac! You poor little angel! It sounds as though you two might just need to have a good, long talk with us, hmmm? Draco and I would never make you choose between your job and your darlingest Ruibby – and Ruibby is right, we’ve been expecting an awful lot of you, these past few weeks. I’m sorry, Mac.”

“Oh no, Macdolas never accuses his most revered and gracious employers of overwork!” he vigorously negates, jerking agitatedly in her hold. “’Tis an honour and grand privilege to hold the triple roles of the Principal of Personal Protective Detail to Her Grace Lady Granger, Chief Steward of the Townhouse of Granger-Malfoy, and Head Butler of Malfoy Manor!”.

“Mac dear, you’ve just proven my point,” Hermione contends. “In asking you to cover too many concurrent roles, we’ve spread your time and attention too thin; and this is a very important time for you and Ruibby, as you’re enjoying the heady throes of your newly… intimate relationship. I’m very sorry: but Draco and I have already discussed a possible solution, if you’re willing to consider it.”

Nodding eagerly, Macdolas bounces and twists to face her properly. “Macdolas has supreme faith in Her Grace’s superior intelligence and problem-solving skills; Macdolas is all ears.” The named appendages wiggle independently of each other.

“Well, it was Draco’s idea, actually,” Hermione confesses, chuckling at Mac’s dismissive shrug. “Alright, so we were thinking…”

* * *

Snicking open the studio door, Hermione barely takes two paces inside before Draco rushes over, cupping her cheeks as he kisses her passionately; her willing lips soften under his ardent attentions.

“Mmmm… you’re the best kisser, Draco,” she whispers against his pliant mouth.

“I know,” he smugly replies, cocking one pale eyebrow. “It’s just as well – I’m the only man allowed to kiss you, for roughly the next hundred years or so.”

“You’re an arrogant so-and-so, Lord Malfoy,” Hermione tsks, even as she happily puckers her mouth for more smooches.

“I am, and you love me for it,” Draco declares, laughing between kisses. “How did your new career proceed, as a Counsellor to the Fey? Has our resident peanut resolved his amorous difficulties?”.

“I don’t know that Mac likes being called ‘peanut’; and his problems were mostly our fault, in truth.” Hermione reluctantly clambers onto one of the high stools. _As much as I crave Draco’s skilled lips and hands, he does play havoc with my concentration._

“He loves it, it’s a term of great affection,” Draco claims. “How is his spat with Ruibby our fault, pray tell?”

Hermione summarizes Mac’s employment dilemma as succinctly as possible, concluding, “I suggested he respect Ruibby’s request for privacy for the night; tomorrow he might wish to order her a huge bunch of flowers to send with a heartfelt letter, asking if he may call on her to explain our proposed solution to their problem. The plan to have him working at the school with us will depend on Ruibby’s professional ambitions, of course; Mac is adamant that her wishes are paramount in making these decisions. He’s cheered up considerably, though he’s now anxious that Headmistress McGonagall won’t consider him ‘Hogwarts-worthy’.” Her concerned gaze collides with Draco’s exasperated one.

“What can we do about Mac’s mother, Draco? He told me he feels terribly conflicted for leaving her in the employ of that nasty old harpy Lady Mac Fhionnlaigh; but so far, she’s refused point-blank to consider moving to England.” Hermione chews at her thumbnail, before Draco slips his hand round hers, wedging his tall body between her bent legs and resting his other hand on her lower hip.

“We’ll think of something, sweetheart.” He grins dryly as he asks, “What’s Macdolas wearing today, do you know? It’s bizarre how colourlessly subdued he looks when dressed ‘normally’.”

A peal of laughter escapes Hermione’s arched throat as she reveals, “It’s Mac’s nod to the great British author, ‘ _J.R.R.R.R_ ’ Tolkien.” Draco steadies her as her helpless guffaws threaten to topple her from the stool. “He was quite piqued when I pointed out a few of the ‘Rs’ were superfluous.”

“If he had a middle name, it would be ‘Indignation’,” Draco jests. “How did he react to learning of Pansy’s abuse?”. Their jovial mood turns serious once more.

“You know how loyal Mac is! He ran straight to his Extendable Wardrobe and began rummaging for his sharpest sword, gabbling about asking Kreacher for ‘intel’ as to the best way to infiltrate Azkaban. It took a few minutes to persuade him to stand down,” Hermione discloses. “Judging by the loud clanking coming from that cupboard – I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s ordered himself a suit of armour, Draco.”

“Fuck’s sake – that’s all we need,” he groans. “Next thing you know, he’ll purchase a Welsh pony and a couple of jousting sticks: our very own pint-sized Don Quixote.”

The image of a wild-eyed, heavily armoured Macdolas hanging onto a galloping pony for dear life – whilst grappling with a jousting stick – has Hermione in stitches. _He’d probably challenge Wirey to a jousting tourney, the first chance he got. Best not to mention anything of the sort to him,_ she determines.

Draco joins in her affectionate mirth, though his smile fades when he quietly asks, “Hermione… how are you coping…? Now that you know fully of Pansy’s trauma, I mean.” He tunnels his hand restlessly through his white-blond hair, his mercury eyes grave as they watch for her reaction.

 _I feel terrible… I feel like I want to cry buckets for the little girl I never really knew… the little girl who deserved to be safe, and loved, and protected… yet another child treated as prey, to be used and abused... and then violated by more evil men, years later. When does it end?!_ Hermione’s lips jitter as she fights against adding to Draco’s already heavy burden of historic guilt.

“I’m alright,” she husks, bending her neck and pretending a sudden fascination with the hem of her brown woollen pullover. “How are you, Draco?”.

Exhaling sharply, Draco takes a moment before responding. “ _Ma petite_ : let us be honest with one another. I’m struggling… I want to enact violent, uncompromising revenge on Pansy’s repugnant parents, and as for Flint and McLaggen, and every other loathsome fell creature involved in their dirty schemes – they do not deserve to live.’

“But – I know my yearning for vengeance does not do anything but pander to my baser emotions; it certainly doesn’t help Pansy, at present. She must be my – _our_ – focus. I cautioned Harry against letting his fury overrule his vow to support her – he seems to have grasped the concept far more effectively than I have, at present,” Draco lays his forehead against Hermione’s for a moment; the transitory touch helps to calm her unrest.

“Hermione, please don’t hold back; you must be shattered, after staying strong for Pansy. Talk to me, _ma belle lionne_ ,” he entreats, stroking her cheek with the pads of his middle fingers, moving down to rub her sensitive pink earlobes. “Let me be your strength for a little while, as you are mine.”

“I just – I feel so sickened, Draco,” Hermione admits, her voice low and lachrymose. “Not of Pansy – never! – but I’m heartsick… there’s so much evil in the world, and people keep perpetuating it, day after day, year after year… the strong target and abuse the weak, it never stops–” she chokes, tears spilling from her tired eyes.

Pushing back into her again, Draco hugs her firmly, murmuring consolingly into her tawny hair as she clenches her hands into the back of his tan sweater, accidentally yanking his striped Oxford button-down shirt free of his jeans.

His voice is as hoarse as hers as he soothes, “I know… I’m sorry, darling. But you are doing something about it – you’re helping Pansy so much, with your unwavering friendship, love, and unconditional support. I bet you told her you’d represent her if and when she ever decides to seek legal redress against her parents, didn’t you? My genius little Gryffie,” Draco comments proudly, after she nods ever so slightly.

“Working together to stop the cycle – by shining a hard, uncompromising light on these dark acts – that’s what we have to do, I believe,” Draco avers, sorrow and resolve etched across his fine features.

“Yes, I agree,” Hermione puffs out a dejected breath. “Witnessing the dreadful damage done to my dear friend… it’s appalling, Draco. Pansy… she told me she feels like happiness isn’t meant for her; that whenever she believes she’s content and fulfilled, something terrible happens to sideswipe her back into abject misery… my heart breaks for her,” she snuffles.

“She’s incredibly strong – but today, I saw that scared, anguished little girl peeking out from behind her eyes… and I just wish I’d been nicer to her, in the past. I was too shallow to see past her bitchiness, when we were at sch-school…” Hermione’s voice hitches and breaks.

“Hey, hey – I was her closest companion, and _I_ failed to recognize the signs – we were all just kids, Hermione. I deeply regret that I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit to be a decent friend to Pans, though,” Draco rumbles.

“You weren’t to know, Draco. I realize we should focus on moving forward, for Pansy; but it’s going to take me a little while. I– I want to make them all suffer, too,” Hermione growls. “Everyone who hurt her – everyone who wanted to hurt us. I want to watch their blood trickle into the gutters… or, you know, annihilate them in court,” she amends.

“My bloodthirsty beauty,” Draco remarks approvingly, a hint of amusement colouring his words. “I’m glad to be on your side, Hermione.”

“Mmmm… Draco, did I hear you refer to Harry by his first name, before? I did, didn’t I? You said it when we spoke our goodbyes, too,” Hermione probes, blotting her wet eyes with the sleeve of her jumper.

“Eh… we’re friends, now… apparently,” Draco mumbles abashedly. “Let me be the one to tell Lucius the happy tidings, please.”

Giggling into his neck, Hermione clings just a little bit tighter, relishing Draco’s warmth and solidity. _He helps to make even the bad, sad days, that much brighter,_ she reflects. _Relying on him to help me through the rough spots isn’t weak, it’s smart… I hope that Pansy trusts Harry to do the same for her, tonight._

“Draco? What _did_ you and Harry talk about? You seemed pretty chummy when Pansy and I came out of the bedroom,” Hermione teases, leaning back to catch every nuance of Draco’s pother at his new ‘buddy’ status.

“I graciously granted him some sterling advice, and we made an Unspeakable Vow,” Draco quips, poker face in place. “Before you try to grill me – by definition, it’s an oath I may not speak of, my curious little _chaton_.” He hoists her off the stool and onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, ignoring her automatic, squawking protest.

“I’m taking you straight to bed, Hermione Jean Granger. What’s the catchphrase from that silly Muggle game that had Gelsy and Wirey at each other’s throats? ‘Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds’? You may collect your knickers in the morning though, if you wish,” he magnanimously decrees, as he kicks shut the studio door and jogs down the staircase, swatting her bum as she tries to pinch his.

“Oh! Well, if you’re going to play _games_ , Draco Lucius Malfoy…” Hermione waits until they cross the threshold of their bedroom, concentrating on projecting her sultriest, most vampy voice as she finalizes her sentence…

“… Count me in.”

* * *

_Monday 24 March 2003: AM_

Harry wakes with a smile already curving his lips. A shaft of pale pre-dawn light peeks through the gap in the heavy bottle-green brocade curtains, illumining the face of the sleeping brunette witch tucked into his side. He savours the opportunity to look his fill, bringing up his left hand to gently card through her sleek, midnight-black tresses.

Pansy stirs; Harry holds his breath until she re-settles against his bare chest, her drowsy little grumble pronounced against his skin. Her left arm is wrapped securely around his ribcage, as he lies on his back.

 _By Godric, she’s beautiful. I can hardly believe she’s in my arms… in my bed._ Harry’s mind ticks back to the night before, as he resumes stroking her waterfall-straight hair and gazing at her peaceful, slumbering face…

After they’d polished off their bowls of scrumptious cheesy pasta, Kreacher had reappeared, clearing their plates with practised efficacy. Pansy’s jade eyes had rounded as two crystal dessert bowls had materialized onto the table, each containing generous scoops of pink ice cream, topped with a puff of whipped cream and a halved strawberry.

Digging her spoon into the confection, Pansy had moaned at the first taste. Harry had looked away, unable to cope with the dual temptations of her plump lips wrapped around the cutlery and the expression of sheer bliss on her pretty face.

“Strawberry ice cream – I adore strawberry ice cream,” she’d whispered, emotion infusing her soft tones. “Thank you, Kreacher; and thank you, Harry,” she’d laid her spoon back in the bowl, creeping her small hand into his.

“Kreacher is honoured to serve Mistress Parkinson; he begs a boon, if he may?” Kreacher had gestured to the jet kitten winding around his legs. “Would Mistress Parkinson and Master Potter be so kind as to watch Little Boadie for a while? She has been fed, and is in need of some attentive company whilst Kreacher cleans the supper dishes.”

“We’d love to take her, Kreacher. And please, call me Pansy – or Mistress Pansy, if you prefer,” Pansy had smiled. Boadie had strolled over to the couch, boldly embedding her talons into the bottom of Harry’s jeans before climbing him like a ladder. Harry had prudently shoved a cushion in his lap before the brazen little cat had decided to savage his more tender parts.

“Very good, Mistress Pansy. Kreacher thanks you. Here is her favourite toy,” he’d handed over a cunning creation of feathers, wool, ribbons and bells tied to a bendy stick. Pansy’s happy grin had grown wider as she’d happily dangled the contraption over the frolicsome kitten.

Catching Harry’s eye whilst Pansy’s attention had been diverted, the gnarled elf had winked ( _actually winked!_ ), before exiting the parlour.

_Kreacher procuring the special ice cream… bringing in the kitten on that flimsy pretext… accepting Pansy’s offer to call her by her first name… this must be Kreacher’s version of tying a red bow around Pansy’s neck and sticking her beneath the Christmas tree. Merlin’s fluffy bathrobe – what a turn-up for the books!_

Feeling somewhat floored, Harry had nevertheless been clued-in enough to seize the opportunity to snake his arm around Pansy’s slim waist.

“Eat your ice cream, love. I’ll keep Miss Bodacious here occupied.” He’d taken possession of the toy with his spare hand.

Watching Pansy’s obvious enjoyment of the sweet treat had been just as pleasurable as eventually sampling his own bowl, Harry had decided. He’d kept up a light chatter as he’d teased the kitten, loving the sound of Pansy’s delighted laughter every time the cat had snagged Harry’s clothing and obstinately refused to let go.

Exchanging custody of Boadie once she’d finished her ice cream, Pansy had tired out the little hellion within ten minutes. She’d laid down the mini fishing pole upon the table, gently petting the black kitty curled up in her lap. After changing the record (‘I Am’ by Earth, Wind & Fire), Harry had added a few logs to the fire.

Sliding back in beside Pansy, he’d snugged his arm around her slender form and guided her to rest her head upon his shoulder. Pansy had been content to pet the kitten and watch the firelight, while Harry had gloried in the cosily intimate moment, his hand lightly caressing her arm.

They’d spoken desultorily; Pansy had asked more about his musical tastes, and confided some of her own, telling him she mostly listened to the classics, with piano concertos a particular favourite. She’d asked if he owned a television set, to which he’d replied that he’d had his fill of mindless TV whilst living with the Dursleys… which had led to an abbreviated explanation of his family tree.

“Dudley and I are friendly, now; we keep in touch, and he visits occasionally. My aunt and uncle… well, we tolerate each other. My real family is Hermione, and– ” Harry had swallowed his next words, coughing uncomfortably to cover his faux pas.

“ – Ron. It’s alright, Harry. He’s your friend, and I truly don’t wish to come between you,” Pansy had soberly assured. “You’ll be friends again. He was devastated, yesterday… Was it really only yesterday? I feel like a decade has passed, since the Gala.” She’d pressed a sweet kiss to his hand, before her eyes had fluttered halfway closed again.

“Harry?” she’d murmured, a little later. “We’re both orphans, of a sort.”

“That we are, love,” Harry had held her a little closer, his heart pinching at the wistful longing imbuing her statement. “Found family is just as strong and meaningful, Pansy… choosing to love, and being chosen in return… it’s powerful, and deep. You’re going to be OK,” he’d repeated the mantra.

“Mmmm…” Pansy had drifted to sleep not long after. Much as he’d gloried in the joy of holding her sleeping form, Harry had reluctantly called quietly for Kreacher after ten minutes had elapsed, figuring that Pansy would not appreciate a cricked neck on the morrow.

“Could you take Boadie, please; I’ll escort Pansy home,” he’d advised, sotto voice. Once Kreacher and the kitten had departed, Harry had carefully gathered the quiescent witch into his arms and stood up.

His plans had been foiled as she’d cracked one eye and groused, “Don’t want to go home, Harry… want to stay with you…”

“Are you sure, Pansy?” Harry had smoothed her hair from her face, needing to make certain. “I’m happy to stay with you at your apartment, darling.”

“No – please, take me to bed, Harry… just to sleep… I’d like to be close to you, tonight…” Pansy had opened both eyes then, gazing at him with unfeigned trust and affection.

Unable to speak (emotion tightening his throat and thickening his tongue) Harry had nodded once, before walking them up to his bedroom. Setting Pansy back onto her feet, he’d obeyed her request to help her undress, her back to him as he’d unzipped her ivory dress and unhooked her bra. He’d hastily selected one of his plain black t-shirts from the dresser, slipping it over her head and tugging it down to her thighs, before shooing her into bed.

Undoing her clever plaits and combing out her hair with her fingers, Pansy had stubbornly insisted that he strip down to his boxers; she’d dismissed his attempt to wear a shirt with a peremptory sniff.

“Skin-to-skin, Harry… I need your warmth, tonight,” she’d cajoled, her tiredness not quite masking the wicked cant to her smile. “Unless you can’t be trusted, after all…?”.

 _Wily little witch._ Harry had called her bluff, flipping back the plain charcoal bedding and firmly draping her across him (steadfastly ignoring his racing pulse and blazing desire). He’d arranged the bedlinens to cover them both, before wandlessly turning off the lights and bidding her goodnight. He’d relished feeling her relax against him, her arm wrapping around his ribcage and her cheek rubbing against his chest as she’d rapidly fallen back asleep.

Now – as he counts Pansy’s regular breaths, and wills his own respiration to stay steady – Harry realizes that he doesn’t want to ever let her go. _I’ve fallen hard… I’m still falling… so much for going slow. Even if she doesn’t feel the same – I couldn’t stay away from her if I bloody well tried._

The tiny scoff he makes at his startling self-discovery inadvertently wakes her; Pansy yawns, dark lashes flickering once, twice, before her eyes properly open and she smiles up artlessly at him.

“Good morning, Harry.” She lays her head back down on his upper pectoral, her mouth pecking delicately in the softest of smooches.

Harry brings around his right hand, cupping the side of her head as he tenderly kisses her forehead. “Good morning, Pansy. How did you sleep, love?”. He keeps his fingers in place, using both his hands to card rhythmically through her satiny jet locks.

“Like the proverbial log… that’s a funny saying, isn’t it?” Pansy replies, cuddling him back.

“It’s thought to have originated because of the heaviness and immovability of sawn logs, and the exhaustion of the lumberjacks who cut them,” Harry explicates, as Pansy quirks one eyebrow.

“Hermione,” they say in unison, chuckling together.

 _I suppose we’d best get up and face the day…_ Harry sighs, unwilling to give up the singular bliss of holding Pansy Parkinson in his arms.

“Harry… thank you, for letting me stay,” Pansy says. “You make a terribly sexy teddy bear, Mr Potter.”

 _Ah – don’t tell me that, in your deliciously sleep-husky voice,_ Harry grimaces. He exhales as he wills his interested lower body to return to dormancy.

“You’re very welcome, Pansy – you can stay whenever you like.” _Please do… I’m addicted to holding you, love._ “Er… I suppose we should get up,” he is dismayed at how squeaky his voice sounds.

“Five more minutes?” Pansy’s fingertips patter against his spine in a lulling (yet simultaneously inflaming) motion.

“Five more minutes,” Harry immediately accepts.

He spends the time building a daydream, envisioning a future where he is blessed with the luxury of waking up with Pansy every morning… gifted full reign to kiss her, hug her, sit her in his lap while he buries his fingers in her shiny, silky hair… her strawberry scent wafting through the house, her fresh taste on his lips, her assured, gentle touch imprinted into his skin…

_Slowly… you promised you’d go slowly. A leisurely courtship, you said. A respectable wooing._

_Merlin – I really **am** a fool. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my dear friend and beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5 for all her help, love, and support. 😍💗😍


	73. Professionalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
> Wishing you all a healthy and blessed year ahead.  
> Thank you all very much for your readership and support.  
> I'm incredibly lucky, and very grateful.
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to @rebelsaurus29, @Rdlentz8, @Cutepeaches02, @krankykittie, @Shawnjoell, and @CarrieMaxwell.  
> You guys have followed this story since the very beginning, when I nervously posted my first fan fiction chapter and wondered what the hell I was doing.  
> I hope you don't mind the group dedication; I just wanted to say a huge THANK YOU for sticking with me.  
> Much love,  
> VJ.

_****Warning: explicit sexual content detailed in Scene 4 [***** at start if you wish to avoid]**** _

_Monday 24 March 2003: AM_

Draco swaggers back into the bedroom, not bothering to hide the self-satisfied smile on his dial. He stretches it a tad wider as Hermione darts in from the ensuite, tucking a few wayward mahogany curls behind her sweet little ears. _Here we go…_ he mentally rubs together his hands.

“Why are you grinning like the cat that got the cream, Malfoy?”. Hands on hips, Hermione sharply looks him up and down. “You’re dressed rather nattily for a day in the studio, aren’t you?”

Flattening a non-existent wrinkle on his grey houndstooth three piece suit, Draco breezily replies, “I have excellent news, _ma petite_ : I shall be coming into the Ministry with you for the entirety of your final week of employment. Now, before you start to huff and puff and blow down our townhouse - I’ve spoken with Macdolas and owled Mrs Sandore; both are agreeable to the arrangement. You shan’t even know I’m in your office – I’ll occupy the barest minimum of space, and content myself with drawing pencil sketches.” He gestures to his brown leather art portfolio, propped beside the open door.

“No need to bombard with me with your appreciation for my intelligent solution to our professional and domestic problems, Granger; but feel free to shower me in congratulatory kisses, should you feel thusly inclined,” Draco uses both index fingers to point to his smirking mouth.

_One, two, three…_

“Morgana’s busted bra strap! Malfoy – could you not have discussed this idea with me, prior to arrogantly implementing it?!” Hermione covers her eyes with her hands, pressing into the sockets and yowling in frustration. “How the devil am I supposed to work with any degree of productivity with you haunting my office, looking like– like that!?” she removes her hands from her face to wildly wave them in his direction.

“Like what? I thought this ensemble was the epitome of ‘Stylish Professional Man About Town’,” Draco defends, feeling somewhat miffy as he checks his patterned black silk tie is tucked securely into the buttoned waistcoat. “Pansy sourced it for me last year, when I had to sit through the annual torture of dreary meetings with various company heads and bigwigs.”

Prowling forward, Hermione reaches out to squeeze his biceps; he notes her dilated pupils with growing comprehension.

“You look good enough to eat… or at least, to lick,” she murmurs, gasping in sudden dismay as she realizes she’s spoken the last phrase aloud.

_Oh, sweetheart… as if I’d let that clanger go unheralded!_ Draco reels her flush against his chest, his hands clamping firmly on her rounded buttocks. The soft, stretchy fabric of her wine red, knee length skirt tightens as he nudges his right leg between her legs.

“Hermione – would it help you to feel more comfortable with my presence in your dinky little office if I gave you full permission to… use me, in any manner you desire? Only on your mandated breaks, of course,” he quips with mock solemnity. “I already have a particular fondness for your door; and a strong hankering to test the load-bearing capacity of your desk, as it so happens.”

Pulling back a step, Hermione groans ( _part frustration, aggravation, and titillation_ , Draco interprets). She runs her greedy hands up his arms to feather the fine platinum hairs just above his pristine white shirt collar.

“You look like a walking personification of ‘Sexy Tycoon’, and you’re disgustingly aware of the fact,” she snipes. “All it would take is you wearing a pair of glasses to cause widespread pandemonium among the Ministry’s female employee population… and a goodly portion of the male factor too, no doubt,” she sighs.

“Well, as it so happens – I have a special pair of artist’s spectacles I use for especially fine detailing– ” Draco begins.

“No! Don’t you dare! Not in public – I’ll be beating off horny witches with a hockey stick!” Hermione shrieks. She licks her lips as she diffidently adds, “I would not be averse to a… private demonstration… you know, just to make sure your ocular health is up to scratch.”

“Of course.” Draco squeezes her delectable bum again. “I did not intend to be autocratic in my approach [ _well, not much,_ he privately amends]; I merely wished to resolve the bodyguard situation, and free up Mac to repair his romance with the fair Ruibby. Spending more time with you is a cross I shall bear with dignity and stoic fortitude,” he winks.

Holding his head steady, Hermione intersperses chidings with enthusiastic kisses.

“You’re bossy – _kiss_ – sly – _kiss_ – and as cocksure as the Manor’s peacocks – _kisskisskiss_ – and I am in terrible danger of succumbing to my craving to take you to bed for the rest of the day, work be damned,” Hermione announces, before withdrawing her hands and lips, shaking her head as if to clear it. She puts up a warning hand to stay his eager progress.

“Stop – we’ll be late, and you know I get anxious about that. I promised Marilda I would finalize all my work before I finish up on Friday… though I don’t know how I’m going to concentrate with you parked in my office, what with your hot silver eyes and thousand Galleon bespoke suit,” Hermione grumbles.

“Ah – the true cost of the ensemble was more in the region of– ” Draco is silenced when she fits her palm over his mouth.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Mr Fancy (and Expensive) Pants. I agree to your proposition, though I will ask you to occupy yourself elsewhere while I’m cooped up in my ‘dinky little office’, scaling mountains of paperwork. Perhaps you could hang out with Blaise,” Hermione suggests. “Get the skinny on what’s going on with him and Gus, please.”

Picking up his portfolio, Draco crowds her against the wall for one last torrid smooch. He drinks deeply of her willing mouth, ruing the layers of clothing separating his hot, tingling skin from touching hers. Hermione eagerly rubs her hands against his hips, moving to his crotch as he gasps into her mouth.

She whispers a fervid promise, “If you behave yourself during my working hours… I’m certain we can find ‘an empty broom closet’ – or similar – in my lunch hour, Draco.” She cups him meaningfully, as his mind flashes back to his half-teasing suggestion the first morning they met with Harry at the DMLE.

“I’ll be so damned good… Sweet Salazar, you’re killing me, Hermione… _Tu es la femme de mes rêves, Je pense toujours à toi. J’ai besoin de toi,_ “ Draco nips at her neck between declarations. He reluctantly steps back as Macdolas’s animated voice bellows from downstairs.

“Her Grace and Master Malfoy have but one minute to depart!”.

“The cuckoo clock that never needs winding,” Draco wryly observes. “He’d better not pull this cock-blocking codswallop at Hogwarts. Don’t scold me, darling, you know I’m teasing.”

Hermione bites back her smile, reaching to hold his right hand and towing him down the stairs. “Come on. And for the record – you’re the man of _my_ dreams, Draco.”

“By Merlin – I love you so… and when is morning tea scheduled, please? I’ll be sure to promptly return from Blaise’s office… to slake my thirst, you understand,” he murmurs, relishing her blush.

He cannot resist getting in the last word: “And there’s nothing better than a bit of hot, syrupy crumpet to renew one’s energy and enthusiasm for the rest of the working day, you know.”

* * *

Harry adjusts his robe cuffs as he strides into his office, gratified to see Gilmont and Faulkner already poring over papers on his desk. He makes a final effort to wipe his expression clear of the giddy glee that has stayed with him ever since he awoke with Pansy sleeping sweetly in his arms.

“Good night, sir?” Gus grins, poking Kolton in his side as Harry closes the door.

Faulkner’s dark blue eyes crinkle as he contributes, “You missed a spot, sir – there’s a trace of pink lippie just beside your mouth,” he points to the same place on his own kisser.

“ _Shi_ – call me Harry, I’ll have to start docking your pay if you keep referring to me as ‘sir’,” Harry uses his fingers to wipe at his lips, hoping his gruff admonition is enough to deflect their impudent gibes. “What do you have there?” he nods to the loose pages they were looking at before his arrival.

“Barry Bones has gone missing; Pritchard-Hawes sent around another Auror team to bring him in for questioning this morning, after – after what you found in the McLaggen dungeon last night,” Faulkner appears uncomfortable, his voice lowering as he studiously avoids directly mentioning Pansy and those terrible, revolting photographs. “Gus had a brilliant idea, which we’re checking into now.”

“I pulled a record search on any property owned or administered by Barry Bones and his family,” Gus informs. “Bones is both dumb and arrogant enough to hole up somewhere familiar, plus he’s a known cheapskate – why pay for accommodation when you can mooch off your unsuspecting clan?”.

“Smart thinking, Gus,” Harry nods approvingly. “What are your top picks as to Bones’s hideaway?”.

Gilmont jabs her forefinger to the top sheet. “This inn in Berkshire is my best guess: it’s managed by his elderly aunt Lucretia. Four of the five rooms are let to permanent residents – and the attic room is listed as having been unoccupied for years, due to needing major plumbing repairs. It’s possible Bones could sneak in and lurk up there indefinitely, without his aunt ever being aware of his presence.” Her topaz eyes glimmer with excitement.

“I know the other Auror team has already checked out Bones’s immediate family’s houses – but that’s as far as they’ve looked, sir–Harry,” Gus explains. “I think it’s definitely worth a shot.”

“I agree. Before we head to Berkshire: is there any news of whether the Veritaserum orders have been approved?” Harry forces himself to unclench his hands as he thinks about finally gleaning the truth of the sordid roofie plot from the two lowlifes currently occupying cells in Azkaban. _I’ve tamped down my rage as best I can; I have to remember to keep Pansy’s needs at the forefront of my every word and deed, until this foul business is finally resolved._

He suppresses his involuntary smile as he remembers Pansy’s goodbye kiss this morning: sweet and chaste, until she’d slipped her tongue inside his parted mouth and set his blood racing, just before she’d winked saucily and stepped into the Floo to return to her apartment. Harry lifts his hand to touch his lips, managing to turn the sappy movement into an jaw scratch as Kolton replies to his query.

“We received a memo that stated Flint’s lawyer has lodged an interim injunction, claiming there are no proven grounds to use the serum, given that no preliminary interview has yet been conducted,” Faulkner grimly informs. “And McLaggen is protesting that he has received insufficient medical attention for his burst testicle, and hasn’t been given a medical clearance.”

“That’s absolute rubbish – McLaggen’s been given thorough medical care – and as for Flint’s slimy legal team! These bastards are determined to stretch out this process for as long as possible, aren’t they?!” Harry poses the question rhetorically. “They’re merely delaying the inevitable – they’re guilty as sin, and we’ve the evidence to prove it.”

His colleagues appear as aggrieved and frustrated as he feels. Gus is the first to recover.

“Let’s nab Bones, and have faith that Pritchard-Hawes and his legal eagles will prevail. I’ve identified that the safest place for us to Apparate near Lucretia Bones’s inn is the small Wizarding High Street behind the town proper.” Holding up a moving map of the small township of Pangbourne, she and Faulkner look expectantly to Harry.

“Let’s go, guys.”

* * *

Blaise’s cheery whistling comes to an abrupt halt as he opens his office door and spies Draco lounging in his imported Italian leather executive office chair… _no, **rocking** in my luxury Cassina chair – with his feet propped on my Francisco Sobrinho walnut desk, the prick!_

Charging over, Blaise swipes at the offending footwear, further incensed as Draco smoothly shifts his shoes just before Blaise makes contact. The complacent blond yawns as he swivels to face him.

“What the fuck are you doing in here, Draco?! I know I locked my door and warded it properly – how the devil did you sneak in? Get out of my chair and keep your filthy feet off the furniture while you’re at it,” Blaise chips.

“Oh-ho-ho-ho – I seem to remember a certain Zucchini draping his dirty shoes all over the Manor’s fine antiques and telling me to ‘chill out’, not so long ago?” Draco steeples his hands on his chest, thoroughly enjoying the turning of tables. “Suck it up, sweetheart.”

Blaise’s teeth clack together forcefully at the mention of Barney’s idiotic nickname. “Get _out_.”

“No need to get nasty, Blaise – what happened to that charming little tune you were whistling? Sounded a lot like ‘I Will Give My Love an Apple’; how sweet.” Draco makes a derisory gagging sound before languidly rising to dodge around the desk, actually giggling as he evades Blaise’s attempts to whack at him.

_Pratty arsehole. Fucker’s quick, too._ Blaise doubles his endeavours, his temper fading as the absurdity of the situation sinks in. After a minute or so of fruitless chase, he flumps into his chair and lets loose his infectious laughter.

“Right – you’ve proven we’re both about ten years old, mentally – why are you here, Draco? I’m tattling to Hermione that you called me ‘sweetheart’, by the way,” Blaise taunts, pouring himself a glass of water.

“It’s Work Experience Week, and my love claims I’m too distracting to be in her office all day,” Draco struts to one of the visitor’s chairs, smoothing his pale hair off his forehead whilst slyly winking. “True love is a wonderful, wonderful thing, Blaise the Praised.”

Biting his lip, Blaise somehow manages to reel back his instinctive ‘Yeah – I know’ response. He instead settles for, “Is that right?”.

Draco regards him shrewdly. “How’s Gus? Did she and Tavi enjoy themselves at brunch? Hermione mentioned how eager you were to see them safely home.”

“I _am_ a gentleman; I was raised to see a lady to her door, after inviting her on an excursion,” Blaise stiffly defends. “Gus and Tavi are well. They asked me to pass along their sincere thanks for a lovely day.” He fiddles with his favourite raven quill in an effort to not think of the incendiary, all-too-brief kiss he shared with Gus after bidding her goodnight outside her door. _Draco’s already sniffing around like a damned bloodhound on a hunt – give him nothing, take him nowhere,_ he sternly reminds himself.

“Excellent. You didn’t see _Daphne_ home though, did you? It’s funny – you were raving about the elder Miss Greengrass’s bounteous attributes for weeks, prior to the Gala… yet I haven’t heard a single word of her leave your garrulous mouth since you set eyes upon Augusta Gilmont.” Draco’s shit-eating grin has Blaise’s ire again rising like fresh dough.

“If you’re implying that I’m fickle– ” Blaise thumps the desk, bridling in a flash.

Draco interrupts, “Fickle?! _Au contraire, Monsieur Zucchini!_ Quite the opposite: your curious heart has finally settled on the right witch, my friend; and let me tell you, watching you fall and flail is a spectator’s delight. After all the crap you twerps have hung on me about Hermione – this is karma at her purest. Feel free to petition for my superior romantic wisdom, or to simply unburden your troubled heart – I am all ears.” Draco leans forward, ostentatiously turning his head to display his milk-white aural appendages.

Blaise presses his palms to his hot cheeks, conflicted as to whether he should take up Draco’s semi-facetious offer, or pretend an impassivity he definitely doesn’t feel. He decides to take the middle ground.

“Gus is my friend; I ask that you respect that, and her. I know you think this is all hilarious, but I meant what I said at Saturday’s completely unnecessary ‘intervention’: I am going to be a supportive and reliable friend to Gus and Tavi. My own... _private_ feelings are irrelevant.” Blaise coughs to cover his vulnerable hitch, mid-sentence.

Malfoy abandons his teasing approach. “You really have fallen for her – well, them – hard, haven’t you? I apologize, Blaise. For being flippant, and for insulting your honour. My offer stands, though; if you ever need advice, or a safe place to vent, I’m here.” He gingerly claps a hand to Blaise’s shoulder blade.

“Yeah– right– thanks,” Blaise mumbles, keeping his dark eyes trained on his ink blotter.

“Erm– I should tell you that Hermione is going to wheedle most of our conversation out of me, though,” Draco has the grace to look shamefaced at his confession. “Best to tell me to ‘put it in the Vault’ if there’s anything you really don’t wish me to share with her – the Vault is sacrosanct.” He nods solemnly to underline his statement.

They stare sheepishly at one another.

_Well, at least he was honest about it. The Vault can stay empty for the time being,_ Blaise swiftly decides.

“Are you really intending to shadow me all week?” Blaise asks. “Can’t Hermione find you something menial to do?”.

“Thanks, mate – you know I successfully run Malfoy estate at a decent profit, and have been doing so for the last five years, yes? Your faith in my professional business abilities is so heartening,” Draco replies sourly. “It will be interesting to see how little actual work you do on a day-to-day basis, in any case.”

“Get stuffed, Lord Malfoy,” Blaise affectionately pronounces. “I suppose you can stay, provided you don’t get underfoot. And no drawing rude caricatures of me, either,” he adds, having spied Draco’s portfolio parked on the other chair. “Bernard Granger wouldn’t shut up about that weird dentist one you drew for him.”

Draco shivers as though someone has just walked over his grave. “Blaise – listen to me, man. If ever anyone – ANYONE – tells you to watch this Muggle film called “Little Shop of Horrors’ – RUN. Seriously: bolt, instantly. It’s a bad, bad scene… I wish I’d never seen it.” He whispers, “Don’t tell Barney I said that, though; he’s mad for it. It’s not right…”

“Alright, buddy – it’s OK, I won’t watch it,” Blaise placates. “On the proviso you quit calling me ‘Zucchini’, you dick.”

“Look – you could take it as a compliment; zucchinis are usually a decent size? Not that Gus… never mind.” Draco clams up, jumping to his feet and clapping together his hands as Blaise narrows his eyes.

“ _’Not that Gus’_ – what? What does that mean?” Blaise demands, as Draco once more skips out of reach. “Cut that out, Draco – and I insist you tell me what you meant by that last cryptic utterance.”

“Yeah… no,” Draco chortles, opening the door. “Maybe if you treated me to a decent coffee – not the burnt swill they serve in the cafeteria, mind you – I might be more forthcoming? Don’t dawdle, Blaise.”

_Salazar’s saggy jowls… am **I** this annoying? I am, aren’t I?_ Blaise pouts his lower lip, before his natural confidence bounces to the fore.

_Nah… I’m delightful… witty… effervescent. I’m the special sunlight that doesn’t burn your retinas when you stare at it directly. I won’t allow Draco’s pathetic attempts to unsettle me get beneath my glowing skin._

Deliberately whistling ‘I Will Give My Love an Apple’, Blaise moves to follow Draco out the door.

* * *

*********

“You cast the ‘Muffliato’, right?” Hermione gasps, as Draco recklessly (and noisily) knocks an actual broom to the farthest corner of the closet, before ruthlessly divesting her of her damp burgundy knickers… _no, he just **shredded** my panties._ The elastic on her left hip snaps once before the seam permanently gives way.

“Indeed I did, Granger – no one will be any the wiser, unless some fool decides to actually clean this dingy corner of the Ministry,” Draco replies. He stuffs the ruined scraps of cotton and lace into his trouser pocket.

“Hey– they were one of my favourite pairs,” she protests, secretly loving his little display of feral possessiveness. “You said – on Gala night – you didn’t want me going about without underwear, remember?”.

“I’ll buy you a dozen more pairs – and I’ll sit you on my lap for the rest of the afternoon to preserve your semi-nude dignity, if you like. No hardship for me, Granger,” Draco promises, hiking up her claret-red skirt and hauling her even closer. His breathing is as ragged as hers.

“I said the– the ‘ _Proprieque Dicitur’_ already, didn’t I…? _Ooohhh_ – Malfoy, more, please more –” she sinks her nails into his shoulders as he teases her clit with the lightest of strokes.

The only dim light in the cramped space leaks from the edges of the door, and through the small keyhole; yet the devilishly carnal glitter in Draco’s carbon-grey eyes is easily discernible. He strums his nimble fingers through her short, damp brown curls as he murmurs, “Yes, yes, we both enacted the contraceptive charm. Tell me, _ma petite_ – how many times do you wish to come? Twice? Thrice? I’ll adapt my methods according to your wants – but you must decide now.”

_Hunh… what?_ “What? Two, I guess? I don’t know – please, just keep touching me – yes, right there – why, will I be penalized for failing to meet your standards of lasciviousness? Doesn’t– doesn’t seem fair,” she grumbles, as Draco slides two fingers carefully inside her slick channel, his thumb never stopping its expert, alternating circles on her budded pink pearl.

“Never think it, my love – but if you’d only taken my advice and ignored Blaise’s attempts at lunch to pump us both for every scrap of arcane information about Gus and Tavi, we’d now have an extra ten minutes to explore the potential of this broom closet. I’m merely trying to maximize the experience, you see.” The underlying smugness in Draco’s voice makes her want to bite him.

Hermione does just that, nipping aggressively at his corded trapezius muscle, holding him in place as she suckles lower, until his shirt collar impedes her downward progress. She rapidly unbuttons the first four loops, watching in satisfaction as his Adam’s apple bobbles.

“I’m so hungry for you, Draco – all the time,” Hermione growls, feverish with urgency. She yanks at his zipper, hearing the tiny tick of the top button as it ricochets off a middle shelf. She kneels, wrenching his horribly expensive houndstooth woollen trousers and black trunks to his ankles.

“Hermione – wait, wait – you don’t have to–” Draco hoarsely objects.

Resisting his attempts to pull her back upright, Hermione pushes him against the far wall, hoping he doesn’t collide with any more cleaning equipment. “Stay still, please. I _need_ to touch you – I want to lick and suck you, Draco. Do you have a problem with that?” She barely recognizes her own voice; it is low and heavy with patent lust. _I sound like a siren,_ she thinks, astonished by her boldness.

“Not – not at all – _uhhh_ –” Draco’s head thwacks into the plaster as her agile fingers fondle his hardness; Hermione uses her left hand to cup and rub his heavy ballocks, while her right digits trace the impossibly silken texture of his long, rigid cock.

Blowing on the tip, Hermione coos, “You feel so good in my hands, Draco… I can’t wait to taste you… I’m dying to wrap my lips around your hard, thick cock… Mmmm, you like when I talk dirty, don’t you? Tell me,” she instructs. Her thumb collects the wetness of his pre-come, sliding his slick back along the length of his shaft.

“Oh, fuck– _baise moi mor_ , I love it,” Draco chokes, his fingers lightly tangled in her abundant hair. “Please, Hermione–”

“Please… what? What do you want, Draco? Be specific,” Hermione licks delicately at the slit at the end of his glans, feeling his reactive shudder and his restless shift against the edge of the shelf. His muscular thighs are trembling, his breath reduced to irregular heaves.

“Please… take me in your warm, beautiful mouth, Hermione,” he hoarsely answers. “ _Sucer ma bite, ma belle sorcière_.” His hands gently guide her head a little loser.

_Damn… I never realized how arousing it is, having my gorgeous man at my mercy like this,_ Hermione marvels. She wriggles, her own wet sex throbbing from the sheer eroticism of the moment. _The added illicit thrill of fellating my boyfriend in a broom closet at my workplace certainly adds some spice to this intoxicating experience._

Taking and releasing a deep, settling breath, Hermione slowly takes Draco’s hot, hard length between her lips. He stills instantly, making her wonder if he’s forgotten to keep breathing. Her unspoken question is answered when he groans deeply and widens his stance.

_He tastes… salty, musky… clean, yet earthy._ Hermione swirls her tongue around his bell-end, taking care to keep her teeth covered as she carefully moves his shaft in and out. _I hope this is OK… well, Draco doesn’t seem to be complaining,_ she assures her shaky confidence. _I can’t take all of him, though… he’s just too big…_ She concentrates on using her hands on the bottom half of his turgid rod, circling him firmly while tugging up and down.

“ _Tu as tellement bon gout,_ Draco _… Je veux te faire voir des étoiles, mon amour,_ ” she mumbles around his cock.

“Hermione… you’re incredible… you can go a little harder, _ma chérie_ … _plus fort_ – please,” Draco pants, moving his hands to grip a nearby shelf and the door handle, his hips thrusting in the smallest of movements.

Elated by the devastating effect she is wreaking on him, Hermione readily complies. She alternates feathery strokes of her tongue with hollowing her cheeks and suckling strongly. Draco whines, rattling the shelf so hard that a few cleaning rags tumble to the floor beside his foot.

“ _Tu me fais sentir tellement bien_ – Merlin, Hermione, I’m close–” he rasps.

“ _Veux-tu jouir dans ma bouche?_ Do you want to come in my mouth?” Hermione repeats in English, maintaining her steady hold on him as she looks up triumphantly.

She squeaks as Draco hauls her upright, flipping their positions so that she is now backed into the plastered wall.

“ _Je veux jouir dans ta douce chatte:_ I want to come inside your sweet pussy, Hermione,” Draco insists. He coats his fingertips in her wetness, using his other hand to flick open the buttons on her coal black blouse. His hand cups her right breast, pulling it free before his head bends to lick and suckle the creamy globe with his avid mouth.

_Oh, Draco – I burn for you – I need you – I’ll never stop craving your touch._ A whine leaves her throat as he greedily traces his tongue under and over her other breast.

Splayed legs quaking, Hermione tips back her head and clutches at Draco’s flaxen locks as blissful goosebumps erupt across her exposed skin. His fingers tap and rub relentlessly, coaxing her orgasm ever closer.

“Want– want you inside me– I want your cock inside my dripping pussy, Draco,” she moans, vaguely aware their magic has made a familiar appearance; her beautiful blond beau’s face is stippled with reflected dots of light in the tiny space.

“ _Prends-moi – S'il te plait, mon amour._ Take me, Draco – please,” she implores. “ _Baise-moi!”_

Draco’s feet scuff the flooring as he hastens to obey; he captures her lips in a desperate kiss, bunching her skirt up her thighs as he deftly guides his rock-hard cock into her core. He thrusts inside in one smooth, savage motion, watching her with ferine intensity and unmasked devotion.

“Wrap your legs around me and hold on tight,” Draco directs, hoisting her off the floor and supporting her whole weight with his strong forearms braced underneath her flexed buttocks. The new angle pushes him deeper; Hermione feels her eyes cross in ecstasy behind her closed lids. Mewling, she manages to scrabble her feet to the small of his back, locking her ankles there right before he lifts her up and down his straining shaft.

_Good thing I wore flats today,_ she thinks dazedly, before the joyous arousal rocketing through her builds ever higher with each jolting thrust. Their tight position doesn’t allow for much expansion of motion, but the pressure of Draco’s groin against her sensitive clitoris more than makes up for any lack of range.

Draco keeps up an impassioned patter of filthy French into her left ear. “ _T'es trop belle – ta petite bouche chaude enroulée autour de ma bite m'a rendu sauvage,_ Hermione. You got off on the power you wield over me, didn’t you, _ma petite_? Look at me,” he demands. His hips rock into hers as she opens her passion-blown eyes and brazenly bares her teeth in an exultant grin.

“I did – I fucking loved it, Draco. Next time, I’ll make you come in my mouth,” she vows, sensing her pinnacle screaming towards her as his tempo increases. “Harder– I’m gonna come–” she bites her lower lip and hangs onto his neck for dear life as Draco’s cock twists against her inner wall, her orgasm swamping her in drugging waves. His pace never falters, while her acme stretches on and on, flooding her with an onslaught of stupendous joy.

She slumps forward, keening tiny mews as Draco softly commands, “Again.”

“I don’t think I can– I– I came really hard…” The words have no sooner left her wheezing mouth when she starts to feel another, less intense climax building. His hands knead her heart-shaped bum, his cock tunnelling rhythmically inside her pulsing channel.

“I have you – place the fingers of your right hand on your pretty pink pussy lips, sweetheart. Rub your sweet little blossom: I love watching you, seeing what you like… _ma magnifique femme_. _Je veux sentir ta chatte sucer ma bite quand je te remplirai de ma graine.”_

Her fingers grinding furiously, Hermione babbles something wildly incoherent as her second peak eventually coincides with Draco’s potent apogee; he drives into her with a few last, powerful strokes, burying his face in her neck as she cries out his name.

“Hermione… _ma petite_ … my gorgeous, sexy, amazing Golden Girl…” Draco kisses her reverently, as he gently lowers them to the floor. Somehow they find just enough space for their tangled limbs; Hermione is thankful for the wall at her back, as her legs feel jellified from their ardent passions.

They swap tender, pecking kisses, ceasing only when the doorknob suddenly clatters. An exasperated, familiar deep voice booms through the keyhole.

“Oi! I know you’re in there – you two have about a minute before Hermione’s boss comes down this corridor – she’s terrified your combined absence indicates another kidnapping attempt! Clean yourselves up and get out of there, pronto,” Blaise hollers. “This is a place of Very Important Business, not a love hotel, you filthy fornicators.” The mirth in his voice belies his censure.

“Oh, hells bells,” Hermione whispers, as Draco begins to button her loose blouse. “How does he know we’re in here, anyway?”

“Your crazy sex magic pyrotechnics gave you away, in case you were wondering how I managed to track you down,” Blaise’s answer is eerily well-timed. “It’s leaking out from under the door, for the love of Snakes.”

He jingles the door handle again. “One last thing, Malfoy – don’t come slithering into my office wearing your post-coital bliss like a bloody cape! I don’t want to see your smug mug unless it’s an emergency, alright? He’s been a terribly corruptive influence on you, Hermione. I heartily approve.” Blaise’s boisterous guffaws fade as he moves away from the closet.

Draco and Hermione share a look comprised of equal parts mortification and amusement.

_How embarrassing! Why is it that my primary reaction is that of proud satisfaction, though?_ Hermione purrs out a relaxed breath, stretching her arms over her head before linking them at Draco’s nape.

“Do you regret this, Hermione?” Draco quietly enquires. “I never meant to shame or discomfit you, darling.”

“I regret nothing, Draco… except that we were such inflexible mortal enemies at school, and hence never tried this kind of fun, sexy caper at Hogwarts,” Hermione quickly negates his concerns. “The good news is – we’ll be able to put those particular fantasies into play very soon,” she beams.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any sexier – you have to prove me wrong,” Draco chuckles. “I guess two orgasms will have to suffice, for today. I love you, Granger.”

“I love you, Malfoy. So very much.”

* * *

Harry drops heavily into his creaky office chair, absently shaking his aching hands before reaching for the necessary paperwork related to Bones’s dramatic arrest. He scowls darkly as he remembers the foul diatribe the piggy bastard had caterwauled when he’d realized the Aurors had him trapped in a corner of the dilapidated attic suite.

“You’re a fool, Potter – all this fuss for a few snapshots of that dirty little Parkinson slut!” Bones had raged, after Harry had read him his rights and informed him of the charges against him. “Anyone could have found those pictures – this is a set-up, you’ve been jealous of my success and reputation since I started at the Ministry, you petty little turd!”

Harry had lowered his wand, charging forward until he’d been able to see the fear and fury in Bones’s porcine eyes. Gus and Kolton had also advanced; the sound of Kolton unsnapping his magical manacles had made Barry’s head whip round.

“You stupid arseholes – you haven’t got a shred of actual proof – I’ll be back out quicker than you can say ‘Potter’s a wanker’,” Barry had snarled, spittle speckling his chin and cheeks.

“I never mentioned Miss Parkinson’s name in relation to the child pornography distribution charges against you, Bones,” Harry had informed the fool. His voice had been lethally controlled as he’d added, “You’ve also broken the conditions of your bail – it’s off to Azkaban for you now. Why don’t you make my day even sweeter and resist arrest, _connard_?”.

“What did you call me?! Yeah, you’re a big man with a wand, aren’t you? One-on-one, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me, Potter,” Barry had taunted, clumsily knocking over a small bookcase as he’d wedged himself deeper into the farthest corner of the small bedroom. “Without your paltry magic and that badge you hide behind – you’re just a scrawny little pretender.”

Harry had immediately re-holstered his wand, grinning barbarously as he’d held open his arms in the universal gesture of physical challenge. “Come on then, Barry – I’m waiting,” he’d jeered, as the blustering jackass had nervously blinked at him and shuffled his feet.

“Sir– Harry– this isn’t exactly Ministry procedure–” Kolton had remonstrated, interrupted by Gus’s counter-claim.

“Just keep your wand on Bones, Kolt – I’ve got the Anti-Apparition spellwork under control,” the tall witch had coolly advised.

Her nostrils had flared with distaste as she’d sneered at Barry, “You’re the biggest disgrace to ever hold an Auror’s badge, Bones – and you couldn’t win a fight against a store mannequin, you chump.”

“ _You freakish fucking bitch_ –” Bones hadn’t had the chance to finish his derogatory exclamation, as Harry had finally unleashed his raw wrath and rushed forward, fists swinging. He’d felt a primitive satisfaction as his blows had struck the two-legged turd with devastating force, precisely colliding with Bones’s jaw, nose, and prodigious gut.

_That’s for Pansy, you utter slimeball. May you rot in hell for exploiting her pain,_ Harry had grimly cursed.

Squealing like the hog he closely resembles, Bones had capitulated immediately, collapsing onto the floor and feebly kicking out his stumpy legs.

The lack of any fightback had stymied Harry’s burning desire to draw more blood. Bones had cupped his streaming nose between his hands, protesting unintelligibly as Harry had stepped back in disgust. Kolt had efficiently applied the enspelled manacles, drying Bones’s nosebleed with a quick ‘Episkey’, before hauling him to his feet.

“Harry – are you alright?” Gus had murmured, her golden eyes projecting approval, and a modicum of concern. “He won’t be leaving Azkaban for an eon… but I understand your raging need for revenge. What he did – what they all did – they deserve nothing but pain and suffering. For a very, very long time.”

She’d hesitated before her next question. “How’s Pansy? I don’t mean to intrude or overstep; but if she ever needs someone to listen quietly, and attentively… I’m available.”

“Thanks, Gus,” Harry had cleared his throat, emotion clogging his airways. “She’s… she’ll be alright. Pansy’s a fighter – like you,” he’d smiled gratefully.

“Like _you_ , you mean? I thought I heard the first bars of the ‘Rocky’ theme music blasting in the background, the way you were socking The Great White Dope,” Gus jerks her head to the whimpering Barry. “Nice work, Slugger.”

Harry is recalled to the present as a light tap sounds on his door. “Come in,” he calls.

He joyfully leaps to his feet as Pansy’s beautiful face pops around the door. She keeps hold of the jamb as she smiles, “Hi, Harry. I brought you some lunch – I figured you’d skip the meal otherwise, and I don’t want you to faint again.” She twirls a loose tendril from her sophisticated up-do.

Bundling her into his arms, Harry kisses her adorable little ear as he rebuts, “I merely suffered a very brief dizzy spell, love. Godric, it’s good to see you,” he breathes, reluctantly relinquishing her as she chirps something about crushing the lunch bag.

“You say dizzy, I say fizzled onto the floor,” Pansy chuckles. “It’s just sandwiches, I picked them up from a nearby deli. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a few different varieties. I thought we could eat a few now; you can have the rest for dinner, or perhaps share them with your team.”

“Thanks, Pansy.” Harry kisses her properly, thoroughly enjoying the returned pressure of her mouth as he zealously slants his parted lips over hers. His fingers curl at her curvy hips, the callouses abrading against the fabric of her pale pink linen suit trousers.

“You look amazing,” he murmurs, before his tongue seeks hers again. “Professional, powerful, pretty… perfect.”

Sliding the deli bag onto her wrist, Pansy slips her arms around his waist, knotting her fingers at his lower back. Her wide smile is utterly dazzling; Harry tells her precisely that as she shakes her head laughingly.

“I’m calling you out for lying, last night, when you solemnly told me you ‘weren’t good with words’… your flattery is almost as smooth as Macdolas’s – and that’s saying something.” Pansy bestows a last affectionate smooch before she steps past him.

“Have you had a busy – Harry, your hands!” Dropping the sandwich bag onto his desk, Pansy makes a grab for his swollen mitts. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Her beryl-green eyes speedily track across his face and body; she exhales in relief when she doesn’t find any other visible injuries.

“It’s nothing– I was busy, I’ll treat them later,” Harry dismisses. “Let’s eat, love; I’m starving.”

“Uh-uh– I repeat, what happened? I’ll fix you up right now,” Pansy slides her wand from her pocket, chanting the basic Healing spell before tenderly kissing each stinging, swollen knuckle. The aches fade, along with most of the swelling and bruising. She retains her hold on his hands as she glares severely at his chagrined face.

Ducking his head, Harry admits, “I– um– I employed physical force while bringing a resisting suspect into the custody of the DMLE. Did you bring any ham and cheese sandwiches, Pansy? I’m rather fond of those.”

“You punched someone?! Who? That doesn’t usually happen while you’re undertaking an arrest, surely?” Pansy wholly ignores his weak attempt at distraction.

Her intelligent eyes taper to suspicious slits as she awaits his response.

Gulping, Harry speaks. “It was Barry Bones. Gus figured out the imbecile was hiding at his aunt’s inn, and when we closed in, Bones challenged me to a brawl. I got in a few good licks before he crumpled to a heap and cried off. He’s nothing but a bullying thug – a weak, repugnant blowhard. I realize I let my temper best me, but I don’t regret it.”

Harry sighs as he concludes, “I’m sorry, Pansy. Gus and Kolton will testify that the arrest was legal – I’d never do anything to jeopardize Bones’s legal punishments.”

Affixing his apologetic gaze to the sandwich bag, Harry is flummoxed by Pansy’s reaction.

“You hit Bones… for me?” she questions, unfurling his palms to press minute kisses along the inner skin of his fingers. “Did you hurt him?”

“Yeah… I broke his nose, and cracked a tooth. He’s being patched up at Azkaban– ”

Pansy launches herself at him so hard, Harry bounces off the edge of his desk and spins into the nearest spare chair; his Seeker reflexes enable him to balance her on his lap as she jumps on him.

“You are a magnificent, strong, sexy, lion-hearted, utterly wonderful man, Harry Potter – don’t you dare apologize for any of that,” Pansy growls, showering him in tight hugs and bussing kisses, as his bewilderment morphs to delight.

“I only wish I’d been there to see you thumping that moronic fuckwit – though I wouldn’t have left until I’d literally carved a pound of flesh from his repulsive hide,” she rumbles. “Probably it’s a good thing I wasn’t in attendance, come to that.”

“Probably,” Harry concurs, happily kissing her back as she delectably wiggles in his light but steady hold. “Pansy, I–”

The three-part rap on his door disrupts their gleeful, impassioned embrace. Pansy doesn’t budge from his lap; she lays her hand possessively against his chest as Draco strolls through the portal.

“Harry, I want to talk to you about – Pansy! What– well– huh– I’ll come back later,” Malfoy begins to back out. “Lock the bloody door, why don’t you?” he grouses.

Harry responds by loftily extending his right middle finger. “Piss off, Draco: now you know how I’ve felt for the past month.” The door slams behind Draco with more force than necessary, causing them both to snicker.

“Now, Harry – you were saying?” Pansy urges, sinuously raking her fingers through his black hair. Harry shivers rapturously with every touch.

“I don’t know… kiss me, Pansy. Please. And then let us feed each other sandwiches, and you can tell me about your day, love,” he prompts, jostling her on his thighs until she giggles.

“You have yourself a deal, Auror Potter.”

* * *

**French translations:**

_Tu es la femme de mes rêves, Je pense toujours à toi. J’ai besoin de toi._ – You are the woman of my dreams, I am always thinking of you. I need you.

_Baise moi mor –_ fuck me dead.

_Sucer ma bite, ma belle sorcière_ _–_ Suck my cock, my beautiful witch.

_Tu as tellement bon gout,_ Draco _… Je veux te faire voir des étoiles, mon amour -_ You taste so good, Draco… I want you to see stars, my love.

_Tu me fais sentir tellement bien –_ You make me feel so good.

_Veux-tu jouir dans ma bouche?_ – Do you want to come in my mouth?

_Prends-moi – S'il te plait, mon amour –_ Take me – Please, my love.

_Baise-moi!_ – Fuck me!

_T'es trop belle – ta petite bouche chaude enroulée autour de ma bite m'a rendu sauvage –_ You look so beautiful – your hot little mouth wrapped around my dick made me wild.

_Ma magnifique femme. Je veux sentir ta chatte sucer ma bite quand je te remplirai de ma graine –_ My beautiful woman. I want to feel your pussy suck at my dick when I fill you with my seed.

_Connard –_ Arsehole _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the mistakes are mine - please let me know how I've messed up the French (sorry); I'll fix it straightaway.  
> Thank you 💗😊💗


	74. Dedication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @hawkeye2.  
> Thank you very much for reading, and especially for your support of Blaise & Gus.  
> I really appreciate it. 😊
> 
> Hi guys
> 
> This chapter features a lot of Geordie slang; I've included the translations at the end. If I've gotten any of it wrong, please let me know. 
> 
> Also, apparently rissoles aren't a common meal outside of Britain and Australia: for the record, they're mince patties (not unlike hamburger, but often also containing diced onion, vegies, breadcrumbs and beaten egg to bind them), and are usually pan-fried. I highly recommend them as a quick and delicious comfort food. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!  
> Much love from VJ xoxo.

__

_Monday 24 March 2003: PM_

Tucking the bouquet of daisies and sweet peas behind his back, Blaise knocks twice on Mrs Green’s apartment door, a smile already wreathing his handsome face. His grin fades as his polite raps go unanswered.

 _Nella did say I was welcome to drop by… perhaps they’ve been held up at the school?_ He wills himself not to fret as the seconds tick past. _I’ve not much understanding of how Muggle schooling works – it’s entirely possible that Tavi has some sort of extra classes or whatnot. No need to assume she’s been injured… or that Mrs Green’s in trouble, for that matter. Be cool, Blaise._

His next knock is more forceful. Bending his ear to the door, Blaise is alarmed as he catches the distinct sound of soft sobs.

“Mrs Green? Tavi? It’s me, Blaise,” he calls, pushing back panic. “Hello?!”.

The door abruptly opens a few moments later; the relief he feels upon seeing Nella’s drawn features is near palpable.

“Ach, Blaise pet – wor bairn is up a height, we dinna hear the knock,” her accent is as strong as her distress. “The lass won’t calm doon, ye ken – ye’d best come back when she’s not in a right fettle,” Nella sighs, her thin hand trembling on the door knob.

“Please, I’d like to help,” Blaise quietly entreats. The broken sounds of the little girl crying aren’t loud, but they are piteous, nonetheless. “What’s happened, Mrs Green? Is she hurt?”. He gently pushes past her, his eyes tracking down the narrow hallway. The flat is mirror-identical to Gus and Tavi’s; he deduces that the living room is to the right.

“Aye – we stopped by the playground, as is our wont; two young laddies did push her off the swings… I’ve patched her scrapes, but the lass is bubblin’ worse on account of what they called her, the wretched wazzocks,” Nella growls. “’Spastic’, and ‘orphan’ – the proper wee bastards.”

Blaise grips the blameless posy so hard, a few of the weaker stems scatter on the floor. “These boys – where are they now?!” he demands, as Nella crosses her arms and shakes her head wearily.

“Divvent be worrit wiv that – had ya watta, pet. Yon kidda needs a friend. Go on wiv ye,” she jerks her head toward the lounge.

Bolting down the corridor, Blaise’s heart cracks as he glimpses Tavi curled up on the old (though well-maintained) green velvet recliner, clutching a… _crocheted toy dinosaur?_ He drops to his knees before the armchair.

“Hallo, Miss Octavia. It’s just Blaise, Kiddo,” he softly speaks. “Who’s your dinosaur buddy? He’s a triceratops, right?”.

Tavi’s sniffles pause upon hearing his voice; slowly, she raises her wet, woebegone face. Behind her thick glasses, her little eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with misery.

“Mr Blaise? Gus isn’t home from work yet,” the child croaks. “This is Tricky – she’s a triceratops, Mrs Green made her for me,” she hugs the grey-green toy closer to her hunched chest.

“I know, poppet – I’ve come to see you, and Mrs Green, if that’s alright?” Blaise awkwardly proffers the slightly limp floral posy. “These are for you… I saw that little daisy you put in Gus’s hair on Gala night, and I thought you might like them. The sweet peas are for fragrance; the lady at the shop said a whole bunch of daisies can smell a bit like cow– never mind,” he hastily abbreviates.

“Manure?” Tavi’s tiny giggle is music to Blaise’s ears. She unfurls herself from the tight posture she’s adopted, stretching out her skinny arm to stroke the petals of the flowers. “Thank you, Mr Blaise… they’re lovely.”

Gulping, she wistfully adds, “Mrs Green keeps potted flowers on the kitchen windowsill – she gave me that one for Gus’s hair. Gus says that our mum loved daisies… I don’t remember much about her.” Her lower lip tremors.

 _Oh fu-fu-funambulists!_ Blaise internally kicks himself for not checking before bringing the bouquet. “I’m sorry– I can easily Transfigure them–” he fumbles for his beech wood wand, before Tavi stays his hand.

“No, please leave them – I love them,” she earnestly informs. “And the sweet peas.”

“Here, lassie, I’ll ferret out a vase,” Nella takes the bunch, carrying them into the small kitchen. “Now, ye must be clamming for scran; nowt fancy, young Blaise, but ye’re welcome to join us. Rissoles and mash, and I’m a dab hand wiv the gravy,” she nods.

“I’d love to stay for dinner,” Blaise mentally crosses his fingers, hoping he has correctly interpreted the no-nonsense invitation. “What can I do?”.

“Ye can keep Tavi company, and vice versa. Games in the box,” Nella points to a small plastic crate beside the green velvet sofa. “Go easy on him, lass – ye might be dunching his colossal ego if ye beat him oft enough,” she cackles.

 _Thanks, Nella._ Blaise doesn’t protest the mild chivvying, as it’s brought a wan smile to Tavi’s sad face. He undoes his tie and wriggles out of his navy suit jacket, folding both onto the back of the couch.

“Come on, Tavi – let’s see if you’re as competitive as your big sister, hmmm?”.

* * *

_Well, damn. Gus is a rank amateur compared to this little shyster._ Blaise concedes defeat (yet again) as the rickety wooden tower topples with his last ill-considered move.

“Jenga!” Tavi carols, snickering at Blaise’s disgruntled expression. “That’s three games to zero, Mr Blaise – I’m the champion!” she crows delightedly.

“Listen, Kiddo – my fingers are much bigger than yours… and also, I suck,” Blaise grins. “Well played, Miss Octavia.”

“Thanks… do you want to play again?” Tavi begins gathering the small beams and reshaping them into a brick shape.

“Yes: but what if this time, we used our magic to withdraw each piece, instead of our hands?” Blaise prompts, ensuring he couches the idea as casually as he can.

“Oh – but I don’t have a wand yet…” Tavi appears uncertain, her eyes flicking to the game blocks. “My… my magic isn’t very good,” she whispers. “Maybe those mean boys were right…”

 _The poor little darling – those puerile shitheads will rue this day,_ Blaise vows.

Plastering an encouraging smile to his face, he staunchly replies, “Rubbish – you’re a brilliant, brave, amazing witch. Don’t worry about those fools, Kiddo. Ignorant and weak people – bullies – always attack anyone or anything they don’t understand, especially when they see how much better and brighter those people are in comparison to their own mean, joyless little lives. You’re an extraordinary person, and I’m lucky to be your friend,” he emphatically declares.

Tavi knocks over the recently re-constructed Jenga tower as she hurtles herself at him, hugging him as tightly as her juvenile strength allows. He pats her back gently, surreptitiously sniffing away his tears. He catches Mrs Green’s approving eye; she winks once, before returning her attention to the burbling pots and pans on the compact stove top.

“Mr Blaise… did you get bullied, too? Gus doesn’t talk about it much, but sometimes I overhear her talking to Mrs Green about the nasty things she gets called at work,” Tavi quietly confesses, pulling back to look searchingly at his face. “Gus always tells me that deep down, bullies are insecure, and I should feel sorry for them – but mostly I just want to throw dirt at their stupid poopy-heads.”

 _I hear ya, kid._ Blaise chuckles to himself at Tavi’s aggrieved pout, doing his level best to tamp down his heightened degree of fury at the mention of Gus’s snide detractors. _I’m going to need a whole new notebook for my Shit List, it seems._

“Yeah… kids are cruel, Tavi. They sniff out your fears and weaknesses quicker than a Thestral can smell blood – erm, sorry, you know what I mean,” he hedges, as Mrs Green harrumphs at his macabre example.

“I wasn’t always _this_ tall and handsome,” Blaise makes a big production of flexing his biceps, as Tavi snickers. “I was a bit of a pipsqueak until I had a late growth spurt, and the bigger kids liked to push me around. Plus… they said a lot of horrid things about my mother, and her many husbands,” he sighs. “Anyway, to answer your question: I think everyone gets bullied at some point, Kiddo. I’ll show you a few self-defence moves before I go, but the best strategy is to stay clear of bad people, if you can.”

He waves his hand to seamlessly reassemble the game. “Come on, I reckon we can play one last match before dinner’s ready.”

“But what about the ban on underage magic?” Tavi points out, worming back to her side of the stack and sitting up raptly.

“Eh – as if any overworked Ministry minion is going to know the exact dimensions of your council flat? As long as we stay on this floor, we’ll be right as rain,” Blaise confidently announces. “Now, take a long hard look at the tower, pick out the beam you want to move, and close your eyes, Miss Octavia. Imagine your magic is an extra, agile hand; open your eyes and reach out with that magical hand, very gently.”

He holds his breath as Tavi scrunches up her face in profound concentration, poking out her actual finger before hastily withdrawing it; they share a tiny chortle, before she tries the metaphysical approach.

Her chosen block has almost exited its niche when the slight wobble turns into a full-blown quake, toppling the stack.

“It’s no good! I’m hopeless!” Tavi shrieks, covering her reddened face with her hands.

“What – you’re going to give up because you didn’t get it exactly right on the first go?” Blaise injects pragmatic astonishment into his tone. “Buck up – I fell off my broom and landed in a cluster of nettles – repeatedly – the first time I tried to fly! Gelsy had to tweezer thorns out of my bum, legs, and back for over two hours… not my finest moment,” he divulges.

“That was a practice run, it doesn’t even count for points,” Blaise magically re-establishes the wooden pillar. “Have another go, and skip the tantrum – I’m due one, and it’ll be a doozy,” he winks slyly. “Although… if you’re too scared to try… I guess I can live with being crowned The Winner by Default,” he shrugs carelessly.

A long pause, before Tavi grumbles, “I know what you’re doing, Mr Blaise: you’re using reverse psycho-psycholo– _psychology_ on me. That word’s hard, it’s got a lot of syllables,” she puffs a stray honey blonde strand out of her eyes. “I guess I can try again – but only because I want to,” she concedes.

Blaise feigns disinterest as Tavi attempts to move a new piece, though his smile is irrepressible when she uses her sorcery to successfully tug it free, laying it gingerly atop the column. “Your turn!”

They trade go for go, Tavi gaining surety with each laid block. The game is at a critical point when Blaise pulls at a risky centrepiece, comically sticking out his tongue as he focuses on withdrawing it safely.

The manoeuvre fails spectacularly. Tavi screams “Jenga!” in excitable triumph, as from behind them, Gus’s attractive voice laughs, “Are you getting old and rusty, Blaise? Your mind-eye coordination clearly needs some work, huh?”. She lifts her plain canvas work bag off her shoulder, slinging it onto the sofa.

His obsidian eyes meet her sardonyx ones; they exchange a brief look of mutual understanding.

 _I know you just threw that game – I approve,_ hers say.

 _I know **you** know I might have fudged the odds in Tavi’s favour – it’s for a good reason,_ his reply.

“This Kiddo’s just too good – I accept I have been routed by a far worthier opponent,” Blaise rises to his feet, bowing low to Tavi.

The little girl claps her hands, picking up a single block before airily instructing, “Do stand, Sir Blaise; you have battled valiantly, but none shall best Queen Octavia Felice Gilmont.” She taps each of his shoulders with the wooden cuboid.

“Did you see that, Gus Gus?! I was using magic, not my hands!” Tavi babbles. “And I won! I mean, I beat Mr Blaise in the first three regular matches, but he was hopeless,” she flaps her hand as she blithely dismisses Blaise’s prior efforts.

“Such grace in victory,” Gus murmurs, gathering Tavi in a side hug and dropping a kiss on her fair head. “Have you had a good day, Queen Octavia? Hold up – why do you look like you’ve been crying?” Gus’s easy smile darkens to a frown.

Nella bustles about, balancing two loaded plates. “Gus, be a good lassie and extend the bench? There’s nowt to fash about, we’ve got it sorted.”

“Here – allow me,” Blaise nimbly nabs the crockery from Nella, dipping his head towards the as yet unlengthened kitchen bar. “You’re up, Gussie.”

After she rolls her eyes, Gus flicks her wand, muttering the enchantment. As the bench grows to accommodate another placing, she moves to replicate one of the three sturdy wooden stools. It births into existence with a loud pop and rattle.

The kitchen/dining is now at full capacity; Blaise uncomfortably wonders at how small the apartment feels, compared to his mansion. He unobtrusively takes a quick look around; the flat is stringently clean and neat, but it’s clear that Mrs Green (like the Gilmonts) has had to make do with limited funds and minimal space. _I have to find a way to make their lives bigger and richer – they deserve much more than this_ , he silently pledges.

“Smart work, lassie,” Nella remarks. “We’ve quite the crood tonight – a fowersome, for the first time in my wee flat. Tavi, I’ll ask ye to seek the cutlery, after ye’ve packed away every stick.” The child nods, little hands busy with the Jenga box.

Blaise sniffs heartily at the delicious aromas of fried beef mince, onions, and buttery mashed potatoes. Nella hands him the other two plates.

“Ye’ll note I’ve given ye and Gus bigger lashins of food; ye’re of a decent size, and need plenty of bait to keep going,” Nella firmly asserts. “I’m not on the hard card, so eat up.”

 _I’m positive Nella is playing up the Geordie lingo to keep me on my toes,_ Blaise muses. _Best to nod and smile, methinks._

“Thank you, Mrs Green. This looks and smells absolutely wonderful,” Blaise sincerely praises. Gus and Tavi add their thanks, as Nella smooths her paper napkin over her lap.

“Aye, well, it’s nobbut but taties and mince patties – we’re not paaky, mind.” Though her countenance stays dour, Nella’s thin lips tilt up as she picks up her knife and fork. “Have a hunk of breed, pet.”

Dutifully offering around the basket of bread, Blaise then applies himself to his mountain of mash and rissoles, liberally doused in rich brown onion gravy. His doubts that he may not be able to consume the entire heaped plate vanish as soon as he tastes the first heavily-laden forkful.

“Mrs Green, you are a domestic goddess,” he commends, speaking rather inelegantly around his mouthful of delectable ‘scran’. “Marry me? Please? Some may caustically judge our May/December romance, but I care not for their disapprobation,” he solemnly avers.

“Whisht! ‘December’ – what neck! That’s more like ‘November’, ye workyticket gadgie,” Nella grouches. “Supposing I’d have ye, mind,” she sniffs, as Gus and Tavi laugh and high-five each other.

“I’m crushed – yet my appetite is blessedly unaffected,” Blaise happily shovels more food into his gob. The amiable conversation turns to Mrs Green telling an amusing anecdote of how her late husband Roger once mistakenly ate strips of dog treats instead of beef jerky, having come home ‘mortal’ drunk from the pub.

“What happened, Mrs Green?” asks an agog Tavi. “Did Mr Roger get sick?”

“Sick? Not him, bairn. Nowt happened, but in the morn I gave the dog Roger’s jerky – nobbut fair, ye ken.” Nella delivers the punchline with precise timing and inflection; Blaise nearly slides off his stool from the strength of his guffaws.

Across the narrow table, his gaze collides with Gus’s. Blaise momentarily ceases feeding his face as the force of her wide, uninhibited grin hits him hard. The memory of her mouth fervidly moving on his (as they’d ‘said’ goodbye on Saturday night) rockets through his brain.

After Side-Apparating back to the Gilmonts’ apartment, Blaise had laid down a still-sleeping Tavi onto her bed, waiting in the lounge as Gus had changed her sister and tucked her into bed. He’d declined the offer of a hot beverage, noting her stifled yawn and tired eyes.

Leaving the poky little apartment, Blaise had opened his mouth to say goodnight; the words had blissfully died on his lips as Gus had pushed forward and kissed him silly. As in, actually speechless – her eager lips and seeking tongue had decimated his reason and inflamed every one of his senses, turning his mind into a primitive looping chant of _Yes_ and _Ooh yes_ and _More please_.

It had taken every last scrap of his fluctuating self-control to not surrender to his urge to slide his hands over each inch of her luscious body; instead, he’d kept his hands fisted at his sides, moaning (probably pathetically, not that he could have cared less) as Gus had spent a magnificent few minutes exploring his mouth and nipping at his neck and jaw.

He’d swayed as she’d finally stepped back into the flat, staring at him with an inscrutable expression, passion-dilated eyes, and a kiss-swollen mouth.

“Goodnight, Blaise… thank you for a wonderful day,” Gus had softly husked.

“’N-Night, Gussie – you’re welcome,” Blaise’s voice had creaked like a rusty gate. He remembers nothing of the trip home, his head somewhere off on Cloud Nine as he’d relived every moment of their torrid trysts. Gelsy’s return to the mansion had caught him mooning into the Floo fireplace, sporting an asinine simper as he’d built castles in the air.

“Is Signor Blaise sick? Gelsy prepares the cod liver oil,” she’d sharply insisted; her implication that he’d looked constipated hadn’t dented his effusive gaiety one whit.

Blaise had popped off the incommodious armchair he’d drifted into and merrily danced his disconcerted house elf across the floor, twirling her diminutive form with ease as he’d gushed, “The world’s a truly wonderful place, isn’t it, Gels? How lucky are we, to be inhabiting this fantastic lump of rock at this particular moment in time and space?”.

“Gelsy advises Signor Blaise to run a cool bath and ingest a fever potion,” she’d squawked, smacking away his light hold on her tiny hands. “ _Sciocco innamorato! Buona notte, cucciolo_.”

Absentmindedly murmuring his own goodnight, Blaise had dreamily gazed into the hearth a tad longer, before partly taking Gelsy’s advice. He’d run his shower cold, rather than cool… yet it hadn’t succeeded in abating his blazing desire for the tall, strong, incredibly sexy blonde Auror with the wicked smile and dark caramel eyes.

 _Blaze – Blaise – **Blaising** desire – heh, I just invented a new word,_ he’d pondered, as he’d luxuriously stretched out on his massive, silk-sheeted bed… eventually falling asleep to experience a series of fabulously carnal dreams, all starring Gussie.

Now, Gus’s fork clatters onto the bench, snapping their intense, wordless connection. “Sorry,” she mutters, turning her head to address Nella. “I apologize for being late; I had to finish up the paperwork for our arrest today.”

Gus’s teeth bare in a triumphant grin as she announces, “Harry trusted my hunch about Barry Bones – we caught the bas– we caught him lurking in his aunt’s attic. He’s enjoying the dubious hospitality of a cell in Azkaban right about now.”

“Well done, lass!” Nella had led the chorus of congratulations. “Ye’ll be Minister of Magic afore ye’re thirty, at this rate,” she’d nodded decisively.

“Your ambition is to be the Minister, Gussie? You’ll be the best damn– darned Minister in the history of the institution,” Blaise had warmly lauded. “If you ever need an introduction to any influential bigwigs, just let me know.”

 _Uh-oh. I really should have reworded that sentence. Or just never said it._ Blaise wishes his enthusiastic ( _rash_ ) words unspoken as Gus slowly swallows, laying down her cutlery and dabbing her lips with her serviette.

She glares right through him as she replies, “If I can’t make it to the top on my own merits, I’d rather not make it at all, Zabini. I take particular pains to avoid the dubious nepotism of the ‘old boys network’, and all the unscrupulous backscratching, and under-the-table wheeling and dealing it entails. Excuse me a moment.” Back rigid, she takes her plate to the small sink to rinse, before stalking off to the bathroom.

Nella and Tavi regard Blaise with exasperated, sympathetic expressions, as he returns his dejected attention to the dining table.

“Howay, man! Ye dafty! The lass is proper crabby, an ye’ve nobbut ye feul gob to blame,” Nella wags her bony forefinger. “A byeut in the hint-end, that’s what ye be needing.”

 _A kick up the bum? Agreed._ Blaise hangs his head, unable to defend his moronic self.

“Mr Blaise, Gus hates unfairness; and she detests being reliant on charity. I know you didn’t mean it like that, but the chip on her shoulder took it that way,” Tavi chimes in. “Once she started working nights at the supermarket, she set aside a portion of her salary to donate back all the money she estimated we’d received, up until we got the flat. She still saves that percentage, only now she gives it to a wide range of charities.”

Swallowing hard, Blaise realizes he hasn’t a clue as to where his charitable donations go – or how much he annually contributes. _My accountant just tells me he adjusts the amount according to how much tax I’m paying… I could be funding a scheme to build a replica of Noah’s Ark, for all I know._ He sinks lower on the stool.

Walking back into the room, Gus begins gathering their empty plates.

“Leave it, lass – change the bench back, and take young Blaise next door. He’s wanting to cadge your pardon, and I’ll see to the bairn’s homework.” Nella prods Gus out of her way, blatantly ignoring Gus’s grumbling objections. “Gan, Gus.”

Tavi flashes Blaise a cheeky smile, her splinted legs moving a little wonkily as she walks to help Nella at the sink.

Gus refuses to look at him; she whips out her wand to return the kitchen bar to its original dimensions, and disappears the extra stool, before she loudly huffs and makes for the front door. Scrambling behind her, Blaise rapidly fashions and rehearses a decent apology in his head.

‘I’ve a terrible case of Foot in Mouth disease – ’. _No, I sound like a stricken sheep._

‘I never meant to sound condescending; I apologize if I offended you’ _. Hell, no! Total ‘man-apology’ – strike that._

‘I’m sorry, Gussie. I’m an idiot. I never meant to imply you need any unfair advantage to achieve your goal; you’re going to make it on your merits and achievements, and I’ll be at the very front of the assembly when you’re appointed the Minister of Magic, clapping and cheering until my hands fall off and my voice box disintegrates’. _OK, I’ll lead with that._

Following Gus into the Gilmont’s cramped apartment, Blaise wipes his sweating palms on his trousers.

_I’ve got this. Yep. Sure._

* * *

_Monday 24 March 2003: PM_

“Pansy? It’s Hermione,” she calls out, admiring anew the skilful décor of her friend’s lounge room. _She really has such a superb eye for colours and styles._ “Hello?”.

“Pollyanna? What’s wrong?!” Pansy rushes out from the kitchen, wearing a frilly white apron over her sherbet pink linen pants suit. “Is Harry OK? Is Draco alright?”.

“Oh, they’re fine – I didn’t mean to worry you. Sorry for dropping in like this, I’ll be quick; it looks like you’re expecting company… maybe a certain brunet Auror, I’m guessing?” Hermione can’t resist razzing, as she gives Pansy a fond hug.

“Look, Harry’s just coming over for a bite of supper – I’m not sure when he’ll arrive, he’s had a very busy day…” Pansy folds in her lips, biting back her smile. “Oh, fuck it– Hermione, he said he wants to spend as much time with me as I’m willing to ‘tolerate’! He punched the living daylights out of Barry Bones today! And– and– we slept together last night!” Pansy’s high-pitched confession leaves Hermione gobsmacked.

“Oh, we didn’t have _sex_ – I mean, we truly _slept_ together – I asked if I could stay the night at Grimmauld Place, and I slept in his arms – he was so sweet and caring, I felt protected and safe and _special_ … Hermione, Harry arranged for our dinner of macaroni and cheese, and strawberry ice cream, and Kreacher was really nice to me, and he even asked me to look after Boadie while I was there – and Harry played me his favourite records, and we talked and snuggled on the couch in his den… _eeeeeeeee_!” Grabbing Hermione’s hands, Pansy knocks them both onto the blue chintz sofa, still gleefully squealing.

 _My ears are ringing – ah, what the hell, it’s time to squall for joy!_ Hermione mimics Pansy’s shrill ululation. The pair collapse breathlessly against the back of the couch, daffy giggles bursting from their mouths from time to time.

Hermione sits up, determined to know more. “Pansy, I’m so thrilled for you! Is Harry going to stay with you tonight, too?”.

“Well… I hope so. I’m going to ask him, anyway.” Pansy clasps together her hands as she candidly elaborates, “Hermione, it was the most intimate experience of my life… I made Harry take off his shirt, and he’s such an amazing cuddler– ”

“No– I get it– not too much detail, please, Harry’s basically my brother,” Hermione interjects, wincing a little.

“Pfft – get over yourself, Pollyanna. From the look of you, I’d say you’ve been on the receiving end of orgasms a-plenty from Lord Malfoy,” Pansy gibes, chortling as Hermione turns beet-red. “Ha! I knew it! You look totally ‘freshly-plucked’, my friend.”

 _Gosh, I really thought she was going to choose a different verb._ Chuffing an amused sigh, Hermione fakes disdain.

“Just because Draco is accompanying me to work this week in lieu of Mac, it doesn’t mean I don’t take my professional responsibilities seriously,” Hermione austerely responds. She ruins her severe aspect as she drolly includes, “We shagged in a broom closet in my lunch hour, and I made up the extra five minutes by skipping my afternoon break.”

Pansy slaps her legs and laughs so hard, Hermione is worried she’s about to suffer an asthma attack. She joins in the hilarity once she’s certain her friend can actually still breathe unimpeded.

“Shush up– it’s not– not that funny– it was sexy and hot as hell – but then Blaise busted us and warned that Marilda was about to walk in! He called us ‘filthy fornicators’, Pansy!” Hermione wheezes. “Stop it, stop it – I came here to ask you something, and I can’t remember it for all our silliness!”

“You two are such hypocrites: after Draco barged in on _us_ this afternoon, Harry listed the multiple times he’s accidentally walked in on you pair getting down and dirty – and you’re squeamish about some innocent snuggling?! Shame on you!” Pansy castigates. Her indulgent grin softens her remonstration.

 _It’s such a relief to see her laughing,_ Hermione reflects. _I know she’s hurting – obviously – but the fact that she’s taking delight in her developing relationship with Harry… it’s so heartening._

“Why do you have that little thinking wrinkle between your brows?” Pansy queries, finally settling down long enough to speak (mostly) normally. “Do you… do you think I’m going too fast? With Harry, I mean.” Her mouth droops as she voices her concern.

“No! Definitely not; and if anything, you’ll be shouting ‘Full steam ahead!’ at the driver of your Slow Courtship Train sooner than you think, Pansy,” Hermione hastens to assure. “I came by to ask if you might be amenable to the idea of attending therapy, tomorrow evening? I phoned my counsellor, Dr Rica McCarthy – I didn’t go into any specifics, just kept my enquiry general – and she’s holding open a five PM timeslot for you. Dependent upon whether that’s OK with you, of course – I don’t wish to pressure you– ” Hermione blathers.

“Hermione, it’s fine,” Pansy quietly interrupts. “I think… it’s a good idea. I was putting off seeking more counselling; but I know I have to just stump up and get going. Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing… I’m sorry if I overstepped, I just want to support you, whatever form that takes,” Hermione leans forward to affectionately bump her forehead against Pansy’s.

“Will you be there? I should be fine to see this Dr Rica alone… but I would appreciate you going with me, please – if you have the time, I mean,” Pansy softly petitions.

“You bet I’ll be there; I’m scheduled to see Dr Rica myself straight after, but I’ll reschedule that for later in the week,” Hermione promises.

“No – it’s fine, please keep your original appointment. I’ll bring a book, or some paperwork, to bide my time until you finish. Look at us: being all grown-up, getting counselling, enjoying healthy relationships with our boyfriends… anyone would think we’re _adults_ or something. Pfft.” The light mockery in Pansy’s statement sets them off giggling again.

“Pansy – do you know that every time you say ‘boyfriend’, or ‘Harry’, you get an adorably goofy look on your face? It’s so sweet,” Hermione twits. “Have you written a list of baby names yet? I highly recommend no middle names starting with vowels; not a great idea, whether you decide on being Parkinsons, Potters, Parkinson-Potters or Potter-Parkinsons,” she titters.

 _Oof!_ Pansy smartly thwacks her with a plump blue sofa cushion. “You cheeky witch – as if! Harry and I have just started dating, you maniac. _We’re_ not recklessly copulating in workplace cupboards.” Pausing in her pillow-based assault, Pansy eyes Hermione critically.

“Speaking of weird expressions on one’s face… what does yours currently indicate? _Ah-ah-ah_ – you and Draco have had the ‘Children Talk’, huh? Let me guess: Draco wants one for every day of the week?” she crows, as Hermione pinkens.

“Pansy – he said he wanted ten – **TEN**! I think he was joking – by Aphrodite, I hope he was joking,” Hermione mumbles, pleating the ruffle on the fluffy cushion’s border. “I talked him down to two… well, he said three, I said two… you don’t think he was being serious, do you? Pansy?!” she keens, as her friend pityingly shakes her head.

“Darling, hie thee to the library and dig out that baby name book; I have a very strong feeling that you’re going to need to consult it – repeatedly – in the coming months… no, years,” Pansy amends. “Listen – you’re nothing if not logical, so let me present the facts.”

Ticking off points on her fingers, Pansy begins, “One: you and Draco Malfoy are now irrevocably soul-bonded, with your magical cores regularly mating (correct me if I’m wrong) when you make love; does that happen with your conscious control? No? I thought not.’

“Two: you’re having sex with the aforementioned young wizard at every opportunity… and you both likely intend to keep to your busy libidinous schedule? Yes.’

“Three: are you one hundred percent diligent – both of you – about casting the contraceptive charm? Are you also taking Muggle contraceptives, or using condoms? Hermione, your poker face is pathetic, I’m afraid.” Pansy clucks sympathetically. “Here, I’ll grab you a bottle of water,” she Accio’s one from the kitchen, plonking it between Hermione’s numb hands.

 _No – we **have** cast the contraception charms… OK, occasionally we’ve cut it a little fine, but it’s definitely been spoken – _effectively _spoken… and I doubt our soul-bonded magic would deliberately betray us by ignoring our conscious wishes… Pansy’s just painting a worst-case scenario. It’s fine; really. It’s good to have a wake-up call._ Hermione nods to herself and inhales deeply.

“It’s fine… totally fine…” she repeats aloud. “I’m definitely not pregnant, nor am I planning on becoming _enceinte_ in the near future. I mean, we’ve only been together for a month – we’re not even engaged! There’s no need to worry. Don’t look at me like that, Pansy.”

“If you say so,” Pansy soothes. _A mite condescendingly,_ Hermione notes, as she steadfastly squashes her mild panic back into its box.

“Come to the kitchen for a moment before you get going, please,” Pansy requests. “I want to ask you what Harry’s favourite foods are, and his dislikes – oh, and if he has any allergies?”. She helps Hermione to her feet, wrapping a compassionate arm around her waist.

“It’s alright, Pollyanna – I was mostly teasing. Just keep it in mind, hmmm?”

“I’m supposed to be comforting _you_ , Pansy – not the other way around,” a subdued Hermione remarks.

“Why don’t we agree to take it in turns? I’ve heard that’s what best friends do, you know,” Pansy grins. “You’ll be alright, Golden Girl… as will I.”

Returning her friend’s supportive smile, Hermione begins to recite Harry’s food preferences.

* * *

_Monday 24 March 2003: PM_

“I accept your apology, Blaise – but what happened to Tavi today?” Gus whirls on Blaise the moment he finishes his sincere ( _albeit somewhat grandiose_ ) apology for his earlier Minister of Magic gaffe.

He gestures toward the floral settee. “Let’s sit down, Gussie. Please.”

Temper rising, Gus prowls to the tired old brown couch, positioning herself at the far end. _Let Blaise find out for himself that the middle spot is a sagging trap, if he should try to sit closer to me._ To her disappointment, he gracefully perches at the opposite end of the ancient sofa.

“Two horrid boys called Tavi names and pushed her off the swings at the park this afternoon; I wasn’t there, but it won’t happen again,” Blaise informs with savage finality. “Poor Tavi was beside herself when I arrived at Mrs Green’s apartment, so I spent some time with her, and we played Jenga, until dinner was ready.”

He keeps his beautiful dark eyes trained on the bedraggled carpet as he says, “She’s such an amazing kid, Gus. I know you’ve had a hard time of it, and I wish I’d known you earlier – I wish I’d been able to help you through the rough patches… anyway, I just want to tell you that you’re doing a fantastic job of raising her. Tavi’s a credit to you, Mrs Green, and your late parents.”

 _Shit – there he goes again, disarming my annoyance and ire with his sweet, ingenuous heart. I know that he means every word; I can see his sincerity shining from him. Can I really trust him, though?_ Gus asks herself. _I loathe feeling vulnerable… or being dependent on anyone bar myself._

“You can trust me, Gus. I won’t let you down,” Blaise uncannily echoes her recent thought processes.

“Did I say something aloud?”. The query spills from her surprised lips before she can censor it.

“No – are you alright, Gussie?” Blaise shuffles closer; before she can change her mind and warn him of the centre sag, he falls right into it – _like a man sinking into quicksand,_ Gus observes. She is unable to quell her helpless laughter as he flails in astonishment, his long legs humorously concertinaing underneath him.

“Help! It’s got me!” Blaise bellows, his thrashing arms managing to snaffle her hands; he tugs her on top of him, continuing to writhe beneath her as he fights to get clear of the structural weakness. “What’s happening, woman?! Get me out of this brown monster, I beg you, Gussie!”.

“Stop fighting it! It’s like a riptide at the beach, Blaise – the more you struggle against it, the deeper it takes you,” Gus gasps. Even through her robes and underclothes, she is intensely aware of his hard male body rubbing and threshing against hers… making her breasts ache, and her sex throb. She tries to roll off him onto the floor, but his grip doesn’t ease as he holds her semi-flush against him.

“The trick is to wiggle your bum free, and the rest follows,” Gus imparts, her hands reaching beneath them for Blaise’s buttocks and grasping firmly. “Oh! Sorry – I wasn’t thinking – ” She snatches away her hands, her cheeks flame as she recognizes her overstep (and the singular sensation of his powerful musculature beneath her tingling fingers).

“Keep ‘not thinking’, Gussie… let’s try that again… relax, _mia bella guerriera_ ,” he whispers, keeping his eyes open as he strains upward, gently hovering just under her parted mouth. Blaise’s breath puffs against her lips, as she jettisons her last fetters of restraint.

Cupping her hands around his tight rump again, Gus manages to pull him up and out of the cavity, rolling them toward the lip of the couch. They lie facing each other, both panting shallow breaths, imbued with arousal and anticipation. Her red work robes are hopelessly tangled between his long legs, though she knows Blaise would release her immediately if she asked.

Eager to sample his beautiful mouth, Gus foregoes subtlety, sealing their mouths with a long, fierce, molten kiss that sends lust rushing headlong through her sparking nervous system. _By Rowena, the man tastes like pure temptation – and I’m dying to take another bite._ Changing the angle of her vigorous kiss, Gus revels in Blaise’s arms tightening around her, clamping her nearer to his powerful physique.

 _We’re almost of a height… everything fits,_ Gus wonders, appreciating that actuality even more as Blaise’s bulging manhood abrades her aching core in precisely the right spot. She zealously grinds back, loving his deep groan into her mouth almost as much as she enjoys the spectacular friction as they shamelessly slide together.

“Gussie… my Gussie,” Blaise croons, moving his lips down to her neck and nibbling from left to right as she tips back her head to allow him greater access. “I want to taste all of you… I want to lap at every inch of your magnificent body – I want to watch you come apart over and over, from the touch of my lips, and hands, and cock, _cara_ ,” he applies himself to backtracking over the path his lips have taken along her throat, until he is once more kissing her greedily.

A warning bell chimes in Gus’s fevered consciousness, though it takes a few seconds for her desire-maddened body to catch up. “Wait– wait– ” she mumbles, her hands slackening as he immediately pulls away.

“Gussie? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry,” Blaise’s handsome face is creased with anxiety; he scoots further back, clearly worried he has insulted her.

“Careful – you’ll collapse back down The Hole,” Gus warns, tentatively snaking her left arm back around his waist to keep him from falling. _Dammit, why did I have to freak out like that?! He’d never do anything with me I’m not comfortable with – he’s an honourable, decent person._

Angry tears prick her eyes as Gus resolves to just tell him the truth of the matter. _If he runs, he runs – he has to know, sooner or later (especially considering my obvious addiction to his smooches and caresses)._

“Blaise, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was– I am– really into you– I mean, I was enjoying that– ” Gus waves a frustrated hand to encompass their fervent clinch – “very much.”

“OK…” he slowly answers, puzzlement drawing down his jet brows. “I came on too strong, didn’t I? What I said, about– about tasting you,” he clears his throat, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks in a jittery blink.

“No. Look at me, Blaise. The thing is… um, what I’m trying to say is… I’m a virgin. Technically. As in, I have not had sex before. With anyone but– but myself. That’s why I panicked a bit. I’m nervous, Blaise.” Gus studies him like a hawk, despite her expanding embarrassment.

 _Is he having a stroke?_ She briefly contemplates the possibility, as Blaise does a stand-up impression of a man stunned into unconsciousness. Only his wide-open, stupefied eyes and the weird whining noise emitting from his gaping mouth indicate he is still sentient.

Shaking his broad torso with her bracing arm, Gus enquires, “Zabini? Are you still with me? Give me something, big guy.”

“You… Gussie… virgin… how… why… sex…” the disjointed words tumble from his mouth like rough boulders down white water rapids.

“Why don’t you try that in English? If you’re asking why I haven’t had sex before, I’ll give you a quick mathematics lesson, Blaise. I was fifteen when I became the sole parent to my five year old sister; I spent the next five years immersed in working, studying, and child-rearing. I sleep on a dilapidated, problematic old couch in my lounge room, and I take as many overtime shifts as I can to ensure my family never goes without.’

“The one luxury I truly don’t possess is time – and being that I was already a head taller than most of my Hogwarts classmates, I wasn’t exactly Miss Popularity there. You want to know something pathetic? When I kissed you the other day, on the stoop? That was my first proper kiss. Oh, Kolt kissed me under that wretched bloody mistletoe the Ministry hangs up everywhere, last Christmas, but that didn’t count,” Gus shrugs.

“Faulkner kissed you? That sly fucker,” Blaise snarls, finally breaking free of his odd inertia.

“Hang on – _that’s_ what you take from my most intimate confession?! Let me up,” Gus removes her arm, crossly pushing at his chest. “You utter arse.”

“Gussie, wait – please. I’m sorry – I’m a bit bamboozled… please, just give me a minute. Thank you, for telling me – for trusting me. This is… it’s a first for me,” he admits, his ink-black eyes gleaming with candour.

Ceasing her efforts to withdraw, Gus quietly asks, “Does knowing this change how you feel? In terms of our… friendship?”.

Blaise frowns. “Never. I’d never take anything from you that you’re not willing – or ready – to freely give. I’ll endeavour to repay your honesty with my own… I want you, Gussie. Any way you’ll take me. Friend, lover, couch victim in dire need of rescue – I’m yours, to do with as you please.”

 _Ohhh. Wow._ It is Gus’s turn to freeze, as she battles to fully process Blaise’s meaningful proclamation. Jubilation wars with trepidation, as the ramifications of his avowal zip through her astute mind.

“Yep – let that sink in, _cara_ ,” Blaise grins. “While you’re mulling it over… want to snog some more? You’re in full control – always,” he affirms. “Please remember that I’m coming off a highly traumatic experience with a killer sofa – I’m desperately in need of some more of your special brand of sweet lovin’, Gussie.”

Making smacking sounds with his lips, he nuzzles at her jawline as she curves her arm around his neck.

“Why not? I’m wholly confident that when it comes to carnal research, I couldn’t ask for a better teacher,” Gus jests.

“True – but I’m delighted to report that you’re the only student in my classroom, Gussie. Only you, do you understand?” All traces of his clownish demeanour vanish as his serious gaze bores into hers.

“I do. Kiss me, Blaise… but I’ll warn you now, if you roll into The Hole again – I may have to sacrifice you to the void.”

“Understood; same goes for you, Auror Gilmont. Now, I need your pretty lips back on mine, please.” Blaise exaggeratedly puckers up, the heat from his big hands pleasantly steeping into her back as he gently hauls her closer.

Chuckling at his affable antics, Gus eagerly leans forward to obey.

* * *

**Geordie translations:**

wor bairn is up a height – our child is very upset.

dinna – didn’t

doon – down

Ye ken – you see

fettle – upset

bubblin’ – crying

wazzocks – imbeciles, buffoons

Divvent be worrit wiv that – had ya watta, pet. – Don’t be worried about that – leave it [hold your water], love.

clamming for scran – hungry for dinner

dunching – beating, hitting

nowt to fash about – nothing to worry about

crood – crowd

fowersome – foursome

lashins – lashings, lots

bait – food

it’s nobbut but taties and mince – we’re not paaky – it’s only potatoes and mince, we’re not fussy [picky].

Whisht! – Hush!

ye workyticket gadgie – you cheeky man

Howay, man! Ye dafty! The lass is proper crabby, an ye’ve nobbut ye feul gob to blame – Hey! You idiot! The woman is quite angry, and you’ve only your fool mouth to blame.

Gan – Go.

**Italian translations:**

_Sciocco innamorato! Buona notte, cucciolo –_ Lovestruck fool! Goodnight, little puppy.

 _cara_ – darling.


	75. Redress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my patient, dear beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5, especially for your feedback regarding the final scene.  
> I apologize for not turning anyone orange, though. 💗😂💗.
> 
> I hope you are all well, and staying safe.  
> Thank you very much for all your support.  
> Love from VJ.  
> 💚🤗💚

__

_Tuesday 25 March 2003: AM_

Retracting her head from her cautious peep around the corner of the open kitchen door, Hermione puts her finger to her lips as Draco descends the stairs.

“Shhh – Malfoy, Mac and Ruibby are canoodling in there; they’ve clearly patched up their differences. Ruibby must have stayed the night. I didn’t hear them get in, did you?” she whispers, meeting her boyfriend at the bottom of the steps.

 _How has he managed to upstage his debonair ensemble of the day before_?! _Draco Malfoy wearing an all-black three piece suit with a matching shirt and dark grey silk tie (patterned with tiny silver dragons, no less) should come with a warning label._ Hermione roughly exhales at the utterly delectable image he presents. _This gorgeous creature loves me… ME!_ She exults in her incredible new reality.

He curls his arms around her, looking down into her eyes with both amusement and exasperation. “I woke in the night to grab some water and heard his bedsprings creaking again, yes. Don’t make that squinchy little face, Granger; you were vociferous in your support of Macdolas’s (and Ruibby’s) sexual empowerment. Be careful what you wish for, _ma petite_ ,” he grins.

Her conversation with Pansy yesterday evening still fresh on her mind, Hermione ventures, “Do you… do you think they’re being _responsible_? With contraception, I mean.” She thinks she has staved off her blush until Draco affectionately chucks her chin, his grey eyes dancing with merriment.

“Well, my love – it is definitely your turn to ask the hard questions. I’ve written a sex ed manual for the species; it’s past time I was cut some slack. Besides, they wouldn’t appreciate me querying their prophylactic choices, Mac becomes uncommonly defensive whenever I speak with him,” he claims.

“That’s because you love to stir him up – no, don’t deny it, the look on your face says it all,” Hermione indulgently scolds. “Oh, very well… I suppose I’ll have a quick word with them both, before you leave for your Hogwarts appointment.” Her capitulation deepens Draco’s smirk.

“Excellent – I do hope I’m close enough to eavesdrop. We’d best interrupt the twittering little lovebirds to grab some breakfast; Harry will be here any moment to escort you to the Ministry.” Draco energetically kisses her willing mouth, his thumbs gliding up to rest just beneath her breasts. Little zaps shiver along Hermione’s spine and limbs at the light, stirring touches.

“Mmmm… we have a few more minutes, surely?” Hermione cajoles, winding her eager arms around Draco’s neck and surging forward until they are chest-to-chest. He responds by boldly shaping her breasts with his lean fingers, plucking at her nipples through her unfussy cobalt cotton work shirt and lacy bra.

“Oh! Do that again, please,” she throatily demands. “I’ll miss you today, Draco… we’ve yet to christen my desk, you know…” Hermione twists her head to suckle at the sensitive corded muscles at the lateral base of Draco’s neck.

“ _Fait chier_ – you tempt me to sweep you upstairs and have many of my wicked ways with you… you drive me wild, Hermione,” Draco groans.

Her titillating response is left unsaid as Harry’s clear voice rings from the lounge room. “Hi – it’s me, Harry – I’m calling out to ensure I don’t interrupt anything, alright? I’ve been burned too many times before. I’m walking into the kitchen in exactly ten seconds; I can smell coffee, and I badly need one,” he grumbles.

Draco keeps kissing Hermione throughout Harry’s audible countdown, only stopping when Harry loudly clomps through the lounge and into the hallway.

“Pansy keeping you up late, eh, Harry?” he teases, dextrously rotating Hermione to face her old friend whilst keeping her encircled in his arms. “My beloved tells me you two are sleeping together, now; in the truest sense of the word.”

 _Such a blabbermouth._ Hermione reaches back her hand to pinch Draco’s right hip. “Sorry, Harry – we weren’t gossiping… well, just a bit,” she hedges.

Harry’s grumpy mien clears instantly at the mention of Pansy’s name. “She’s amazing – I mean, I already knew that, but she’s just– I really– it’s great,” he waffles. “Pansy said you dropped by last night, and she told me what she warned you about, Hermione; so I guess I can forgive your overshare to Malfoy,” he concludes, grinning widely.

“Warned you about what?” Draco challenges. “Hermione?”.

“I’ll tell you later,” she hastily assures. “Come on, we all have a busy morning,” Hermione drags Draco by the hand as they follow Harry into the kitchen/dining space.

“Oh, hell– ” Harry mutters, being the first to spy a giggling Ruibby being flirtatiously bounced on Macdolas’s lap as the redheaded elf tickles some very sensitive spots on her petite anatomy. “Bloody spring fever! Forget the coffee, I need a memory wipe.” He tries to pivot to bolt back to the Floo, but Draco is too quick.

Clamping his hands on Harry’s shoulders, Draco propels the disgruntled Auror toward the steaming coffee plunger. “Ignore them; and have some pity for me, I’m taking them to meet Headmistress McGonagall today to discuss our professional futures,” he reveals. “Elfish Jane and Bingley are going to induce a savage headache by the end of the morning – I just know it.”

“Macdolas informs Master Malfoy his loud insults fail to upset the joy of our true, profound, unique and inviolable love; once again, Master Malfoy grossly overestimates his talent for jocosity!” Mac pipes from his chair, zealously (albeit somewhat awkwardly) standing and gathering up Ruibby as she nervously clutches at his neck for support.

“Macdolas bids good morning and happy tidings to The Most Revered Master Harry James Potter, Sorcerer Extraordinaire and Blessed Co-Saviour of the Wizarding World! Does our Most Cherished Master Harry James Potter require assistance in any way? Macdolas and Ruibby would be honoured to provide such aid.” He almost topples the two of them as he begins a predictably deep, elaborate bow.

“Easy there, Mac – it’s rather bad form to drop your girlfriend on the floor,” Harry steps in to steady the pair. “Thank you, but I’ll just grab a coffee before Hermione and I go on our way. Best of luck with your interviews for Hogwarts; I have complete faith in you both. I’m happy to put in a good word with Headmistress McGonagall, if you like?”

Mac’s eyes magnify as he gazes raptly at his idol. “The Venerable Master Potter would… would be so kind?” he chokes, as Ruibby slips her scrawny arm around his waist, soothingly petting his back. “Macdolas is most unworthy, but infinitely humbled and ever so grateful… so undeserving…”

“Leave it out – Harry still puts on his trousers one leg at a time and bleeds red, just like the rest of us, Macdolas,” Draco acerbically remarks. “Hurry up; we need to walk in from Hogsmeade, and Minerva appreciates timeliness.”

Shooting him a snaky glare, Ruibby pertly rebuts, “Ruibby and Macdolas await Master Malfoy as he puts the final preening touches on his presentation.”

“I like her,” Harry quietly chuckles to Hermione. “Is Draco aware your elves are leading him by the nose?”. He quickly pours a coffee into a white mug, doctoring it with a few sugars and stirring briskly.

“He is; he pretends petulance, but he’s told me before that he’d sign over the Manor and all its gold and chattels to Mac, if he ever wanted it,” Hermione covertly replies. “Draco meant it, too.”

“Huh. How the worm has turned,” Harry comments, sipping happily at his java.

“I can hear you,” Draco grumbles. “Granger, your chat will have to wait. Finish your coffee, Harry, we’ll Floo first.” He plants a final kiss on her lip-glossed mouth, adding, “Have a good day, _ma petite_. I should be back for lunch,” he waggles his brows suggestively; Harry groans, shielding his eyes with his free hand.

“Bye, _mon coeur_. Good luck for your interview, though you won’t need it… Minerva’s just a big old pussycat, you know.” She snickers at her own poor joke, as Mac and Ruibby babble their goodbyes and skitter through the doorway, arm-in-arm. “I love you, Draco.”

“I love you, Hermione. See you soon, sweetheart. Harry, take the best care of my witch, please.”

“Yeah, yeah – Gilmont and Faulkner are shadowing her until you return. Goodbye, good luck, etcetera.” Harry waves genially, appearing more alive as the caffeine hits his system.

Once the trio have departed, Hermione asks Harry, “Are you sure you can spare Gus and Kolt? I’ll be fine in my office, I plan to stay put to complete my paperwork backlog.”

“I’m positive I can do without them for a few hours – I’m due to meet with Pritchard-Hawes and his team. We’re pushing for the Veritaserum (or at least, the preliminary interviews) to take place this afternoon,” Harry’s jade eyes darken and narrow behind his glasses. “Hermione, I promise you that I will do everything I can to ensure everyone involved in this sick scheme receives their just desserts. What they did– what they planned to do, to you, and Pansy, and countless other women–” his jaw clenches as his words abruptly break off.

_Poor Harry. It’s unsurprising that he always assumes the staggering weight of our burdens; but it pains me so, to see him constantly worn down by the responsibility of carrying the world on his shoulders._

Rubbing his forearm consolingly, Hermione replies, “I know you will, Harry. Thank you. We’re OK, you don’t have to worry so much, hmmm? You’re a brilliant Auror, but you can trust us to take care of ourselves, too. Did Pansy tell you we’re attending therapy, tonight?”.

“Yes, she mentioned it.” Harry’s brow unwrinkles as he properly turns to face her. “Hermione… it’s hard to describe, but when I’m with Pansy, I feel like– like I can be the true version of myself… like I don’t have to try to be what everyone expects of me, you know? Merlin, I sound like a callow schoolboy carving our initials into a tree,” he laughs at himself.

Hermione bumps his half-full mug a little as she impulsively bestows a tight, emotional hug on her dear friend. “I’m so happy for you, Harry – and yes, I absolutely get it. That’s how I feel, with Draco… he gets me, and he loves every part of me, even the dark, iffy shadows,” she smiles. “Though I don’t know how long either of you are going to hold out on your tortoise-slow romantic pace,” she teases. “Pansy had a certain… salacious look in her eye, when she was describing how much she appreciated your strength and protectiveness. ‘Salacious’ means ‘lustful’, by the way.”

“It may surprise you to learn I’ve read a few more books since we left school, Hermione,” Harry defends, gulping down the rest of his hot beverage in one hit. “Please don’t remind me of my foolish public declaration to woo Pansy unhurriedly… I stand by my decision, but all the ruddy ‘salaciousness’ bubbling around me is making things pretty hard– oh, shite – forget it, and stop laughing at me,” he places his mug in the sink and keeps his embarrassed face averted.

“Hey – you said it, Harry, not me,” Hermione chortles. “ And you did razz me and Draco constantly, if you recall.”

“No – come on, I was simply trying to help you two idiots realize you were mad for each other – that’s entirely different,” Harry argues. “You have to admit, your mutual delusion was painful to watch.”

“Oh, phooey,” Hermione bats her hand irritably. “We weren’t quite ready yet, that’s all.”

Harry stares at her, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sure, love,” he patronizes. “Whatever you say. No, don’t bite, we should get going,” he offers her his arm.

_Cheeky wretch. Let’s see if you’re still grinning slyly after a whole week spent snuggling with Pansy Parkinson at night. That’ll cook your smug goose, my friend._

Pinning together her lips, Hermione nods, accepting Harry’s escort to the fireplace.

“Let’s go, Harry.”

* * *

“Miss Ruibby, Mister Macdolas; it is a great pleasure to meet you both,” Headmistress McGonagall greets, as the elves in question bow and scrape their way across her office. “Do be seated, please; I’ll conduct your interviews first, if you don’t mind? Mr Malfoy, there is a seat for you in the corridor; we shan’t be overlong,” Minerva ushers him outside before he can gather his wits to properly protest.

“But I– ” the door firmly closes in his face. Draco slinks off to the aforementioned chair, casting a few peevish glowers behind him. _Salazar only knows what tall tales Mac is likely to spin in there. Forget his middle name being ‘Indignation’ – ‘’Hyperbolic’ fits better. Well, I suppose I should be grateful for a few moments of peace, after shepherding the crazy couple through the castle._

Draco wryly laughs to himself as he relives Mac’s fraught encounter ( _confrontation, rather_ ) with Argus Filch and Mrs Norris. The gaunt caretaker and his beloved dust-coloured moggy had approached them in one of the busy corridors, the sea of curious school children parting and flowing around the odd little group.

Mac had chivalrously pushed Ruibby behind him and drawn a small dagger from the pocket of his bespangled wizardly robes (a deep purple, apparently in honour of Professor Dumbledore, Draco had learned during the interminable walk in from Hogsmeade), as Mrs Norris had first sniffed, then hissed menacingly at the elves.

“Stay back, darlingest Ruibby; Macdolas shall subdue the vicious beastie,” he’d stridently announced, causing the crowd of rubbernecking students to pause and thicken. “Never fear, my dearest love.”

“Oi! What’s this then?! House elves out of bounds, threatening Mrs Norris?” an outraged Filch had squalled, before he’d noticed Draco rolling his eyes and rubbing at his temples. “What’re you about, young Malfoy? Sedition, I reckon!”.

Honestly surprised that Filch knew the meaning of ‘sedition’ – and was able to use it in a sentence – a few moments had elapsed before Draco had confiscated the wavering blade from Mac’s possession. “Give me that – and you lot, you’d best get to class before you’re penalized for your tardiness,” he’d addressed the milling mob. “Go learn something useful – go on!”.

Once the last nosy child had scampered, Draco had turned to Filch. “Good day to you, too, Argus,” he’d dryly voiced. “I’m at a complete loss to understand how escorting my two house elves to a pre-arranged appointment with Headmistress McGonagall could possibly be construed as treasonous. Move aside, please; we’ve a better place to be.”

A seething Filch had carefully picked up a hunch-backed Mrs Norris, lovingly patting her striped fur. His bitter eyes hadn’t ceased their scowling regard as Draco had urged forward Macdolas and Ruibby.

“Always up to no good… know that I’m keeping my eyes on you,” Filch had sniped, following from a goodly distance until they’d reached McGonagall’s office door. Draco had ignored the gibe, dousing Ruibby’s attempt to return verbal fire.

“Ruibby asks who is that sour, smelly, wheezy old man, Master Malfoy? Is he half-goblin?” she’d loudly enquired.

“That’s unkind to goblins, Ruibby. Don’t worry about Caretaker Filch, he’ll not hurt you. I know he doesn’t look it, but he’s one of the good guys… sort of,” Draco had counselled, remembering Argus evacuating students from the castle, before joining in the Battle of Hogwarts. “He’s mostly harmless, provided you don’t menace his precious Mrs Norris – yes, I’m talking to you, Macdolas.”

Grouching something unintelligible, Macdolas had stuck his sharp proboscis high in the air, shooting cross looks at Draco’s leather art portfolio (where he’d safely housed the banned dagger). It had been a definite relief to make it to the appointment without further incident, he reflects.

Closing his eyes, Draco works to control his breathing. Being back at Hogwarts always evokes a mixed bag of feelings… though certainly, there are fewer negative emotions for him, these days. There yet remains a dissonance between his pristine memories of Hogwarts from his earlier years of schooling, and the smoking, scarred ruins of the castle, straight after the War. It reminds him of the architectural changes he’d commissioned for the townhouse, to adapt the third floor into his studio; the original blueprints overlaid with the new designs, on semi-transparent paper.

He peers intently at the dimly-lit wall opposite, striving to decode the where the old brick ends and the new, repaired material begins. _Perhaps that line, just beside the mullioned window_ … Draco shakes his head, giving up the silly pastime. _Does it matter? The castle survived, just as we did; and it was eventually patched up, as were we… Most of us, anyway._

His glum ruminations are curtailed by the door re-opening, and McGonagall briskly beckoning him back inside. “Come, Mr Malfoy. Thank you for your patience.”

Flashing Minerva a tight smile, Draco rises to follow her inside.

* * *

“Would you care for some tea, Mr Malfoy? We’ll begin the interview proper once Head Boy McGrath arrives; he’ll take Macdolas and Ruibby down to the kitchens to introduce them to their new colleagues,” Minerva smiles benevolently at the ecstatic elven couple, as they bounce in their seats, retaining hold of each other’s twiggy hands even as they jiggle with exhilaration. “Congratulations; I have every confidence you will be sterling additions to the Hogwarts staff, my dears.”

 _Two down, one to go, Draco muses. Wouldn’t it be mortifying if my house elves gained employment at my alma mater, while I was rejected?_ He ousts the unwelcome thought from his mind, concentrating on instilling his Occlumency calm into his edgy mind.

“Tea would be lovely; thank you, Headmistress McGonagall,” he quietly replies. “Please call me Draco, if you don’t mind.”

“Indeed. And in turn, you may address me as Minerva,’ she readily accedes, her clever eyes twinkling, though her expression remains characteristically impassive. “It’s past time we dismissed the formalities, considering all you’ve done to help rehabilitate Hogwarts, Draco.”

She nonchalantly waves her wand; behind her, a kettle begins to burble, while tea cups, saucers, teaspoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a jug of milk busily arrange themselves onto a copper tray. A knock at the door sounds, just before the muffled phrase _‘Panthera uncia’_ is heard. A lanky youth with grey-blue eyes and a carefully brushed crop of wavy, sandy-brown hair pops his head around the door.

“Good morning, Professor– I mean, Headmistress– McGonagall. You sent for me?”. The boy’s eyes blink as he takes in the sight of Macdolas and Ruibby twisting in their small chairs, warmly pecking lips.

 _Dragon balls – these two are hellbent on embarrassing me at every turn._ Draco jabs a warning finger into Macdolas’s exposed ribs. “Behave with decorum, pipsqueak! You’ve not signed any employment contracts yet,” he hisses. “Cut it out.”

The elves reluctantly break apart, not appearing chastened in the least as McGonagall introduces the lad. “Joseph, this is Mr Malfoy, Macdolas, and Ruibby; would you be so kind as to escort Ruibby and Macdolas to meet our other elvish staff? They will both soon be joining our employ; I shall make the necessary arrangements regarding their duties and accommodations once I’ve completed my interview with Mr Malfoy.”

“Of course, Headmistress. Hello,” he nods around the room, smiling quietly. Ruibby trots over to him, slipping her little fingers into Joseph’s dangling hand, much to Macdolas’s evident disgust; the cranky elf grabs for her other small paw, glaring up at the tall stripling.

“You’re the Head Boy?” Draco brusquely asks. “I believe you’ve met Ms Hermione Granger – _my girlfriend_ ,” he emphasizes, meanly relishing the lad’s heightened colour and nervously darting eyes. “She’s a brilliant, talented, beautiful witch; I’m a very lucky man.” _Piss off, Joseph._

“Y-Yes? I mean, Hermione– Ms Granger, that is– she’s lovely. Uhhh…” Joseph gulps, his startled eyes beseeching Minerva for rescue.

“Thank you, Joseph; I’ll send Mr Malfoy down to the kitchens to collect Macdolas and Ruibby, and then you may return to your classes,” McGonagall instructs.

Once the three have departed (Macdolas seemingly doing his level best to trip Joseph as he barges through the door before the student), Minerva tsks at Draco. “If you truly intend to work here, you’ll need to shelve your jealousy over Ms Granger, Draco; it’s a natural occurrence for the students to harbour innocent crushes on their teachers,” she rebukes.

“Provided their affections remain innocuous, they’ve nothing to fear from me,” Draco replies, with a tight smile. “I don’t care for the cut of that boy’s jib, that’s all.”

“Ach – men!” Minerva’s lips thin. “Do get over yourself, Draco.”

 _That’s telling me._ Draco forces himself not to defensively crouch in his seat. _I feel as though I’m a jejune teenager again. This interview is swiftly going to hell in a handbasket, isn’t it? Great._ The tip of his ears begin to scorch.

“Now: tell me why you wish to teach at Hogwarts?” Minerva sternly questions. “Is it simply to be near Ms Granger, or do you possess actual academic ambition, Draco? Forgive my bluntness; your green-eyed display just now was not entirely prepossessing, shall we say.”

“I do want to be with Hermione – there’s no point denying it,” Draco blurts. “But I’ve always wanted to teach here, though I never thought I would ever be able to; initially, due to my father’s expectations of my future, and then–” he swallows stiffly. “Later, I knew I would never be accepted because of my reprehensible actions, before – and during – the War. Having a known Death Eater on staff isn’t tenable, I realize that. I apologize for wasting your time, Headmistress McGonagall.”

Miserably rising, Draco is stunned when Minerva uses wandless magic to press him back into his chair.

“You ever did have a flair for melodrama, Draco. Cease spouting your self-pitying nonsense, and hand over that portfolio,” she curtly orders. “I must also highlight that Severus Snape was a ‘known Death Eater’; and his actions were integral to bringing down that grotesque, vicious, nose-less abomination.”

She curls her fingers impatiently. “Come, come – the portfolio, please.”

Feeling decidedly dazed, Draco silently obeys. He watches with growing trepidation as Minerva critically shuffles through the photographs of his paintings and sketches. As she reaches the last one, he nearly reaches to snatch it back; only her rapt gaze stays his jittery hand.

Her hand fumbles at her throat, her pale green eyes growing moist as her regard never wanders from the picture.

Finally, Minerva speaks. “This is… extraordinary, Draco. Excuse me,” she dabs at her welling tears with an immaculate handkerchief. “It’s quite evocative, isn’t it? The memories…”

 _Fuck. I knew I shouldn’t have included it._ “I’m sorry– here, let me put it away–” Draco recoils as his grabbing hand is slapped down.

“I’ll return it when I’m good and ready, lad. Grant a sentimental old woman a moment to wallow,” she ripostes, with a watery smile.

Shifting, Draco thinks on the original painting. He’d completed it during rehab, after having discovered the power of art therapy in helping him to process past trauma. Judging it too rough and raw (and slightly too abstract) to include in his gallery showings, he’d brought along the photo today on a whim.

The landscape depicts one of the latter scenes during the Battle of Hogwarts, just before Draco had heeded his parents’ pleas to join them in their dubious neutral territory. The painting shows the centuries-old castle, battered and smoking, yet still standing upright behind the fierce group of loyal warriors (determined to fight to the death for all that is good and pure and right in the world); the dismal black of the jeering Death Eaters as they’d bayed along with their deranged leader; the limp form of Harry Potter, lovingly cradled in Hagrid’s huge, grieving arms.

Draco hadn’t consciously intended to render the scenario in a palette consisting primarily of dreary greys and blacks; his mind had supplied the muted colours, along with the pervasive sense of grief, terror… and improbable, inextinguishable hope. Though the faces are small and mostly blurred, his eye always seeks out the frazzled russet curls of a figure on the steps, her arms defiantly propped on her hips. _My Hermione… my darling, fierce, magnificent lioness_. _My one true love._

The sound of Minerva carefully sliding the pictures back into his portfolio snaps Draco from his wool-gathering. She sniffles a final time before once again affixing her canny stare onto his apprehensive self.

“Draco, my question to you is this: would you prefer to jointly teach Art with Professor Cecily Benson, or become the back-up Potions teacher for Mr Kvothe Flagg? I offer the latter option as I took the liberty of pulling your scholastic records, which clearly indicated your unique aptitude for the subject. Hermione also told me in great detail of your ingenuity in developing original menstrual-based potions, and their proven efficacy.” Minerva’s searching gaze does not falter.

“In addition, Professor Flagg has lately been expressing his desire to travel to exotic lands… and to bungee-jump, of all things.” She wrinkles her nose in obvious distaste. “I have offered to push him off our highest tower myself, but he’s thus far declined the suggestion.”

“Might I be so bold as to suggest I split my time between both positions? And I would very much like to create and implement an all-inclusive program of adapted art therapy, for any student wishing to participate,” the words flow from Draco’s mouth before he has a chance to censor himself. “I’d insist upon it, in fact.”

“Aye – there’s the arrogance I knew of old,” Minerva bitingly observes, lifting one imperious eyebrow. “Much preferred to cringing diffidence, I must say. Very well, Draco; let us parley.”

Straightening his spine and summoning all of his Slytherin charm ( _and self-serving ambition, of course_ ), Draco leans forward to begin arguing his case.

* * *

_Tuesday 25 March 2003: PM_

Blaise bursts through Harry’s office door after two rapid, perfunctory knocks. “Harry – I need to borrow your invisibility cloak for a couple of hours. Please,” he tacks on, as Harry’s frown intensifies.

“Come in, Blaise,” Harry redundantly quips. “Who says I have an invisibility cloak?”. He lays down his quill to rub at his cramping hand.

“Hermione,” Blaise drops her in it without a second’s hesitation. “I saw her first, explained my plans, and she suggested I ask you nicely for the loan.” He plasters a winsome, toothy smile to his face. _Few can resist the power of the Great Zabini when I really put my charm into play._ Blaise pushes a tad harder.

“Pretty, pretty please, with a cherry on top? I know my good friend – the inestimable, remarkable, talented and lion-hearted Harry Potter would never deny a buddy in need…” Blaise drops to his knees before the cluttered desk, as Harry remains stoically unmoved.

“Look, I’d best not tell you the entirety of my scheme – but I assure you, no one will get hurt. Not permanently, anyway,” Blaise wheedles, clasping together his large hands in fervent petition. “I promise. And I’d never grass on you, you can take that to the bank,” he nods.

“’Grass on me’ – you sound like a character from a bad Muggle cop drama,” Harry signs resignedly. “Which I greatly doubt you’ve ever seen, you berk.”

“Hey – I’m an educated man of the world, Harry, and my cultural knowledge is remarkable.” The boast easily falls from Blaise’s grinning lips. “I’ve thought of another great reason to lend me your cloak; the sooner I have it, the quicker I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Huh – you speak some sense, at long last. Get off my floor, you’re making the place look untidy,” Harry carps. “You can borrow the cloak – temporarily, I stress – provided you never say a word of its existence to anyone else, and you don’t use it to do anything skeezy, or illegal.”

Cogitating quickly, Blaise decides his plot falls outside those parameters. _More or less, anyway_. Jumping upright, he sticks out his hand, conscience assuaged. “Deal.”

“Don’t make me regret this, Blaise,” Harry warns, shaking hands before he rummages through his work bag. “And be careful with it, please; it was my dad’s, and it’s older than… yeah, it’s old,” he abridges, handing Blaise a small, faded red cloth bag with a knotted drawstring.

“I’ll be gentle – I always am,” Blaise winks, as Harry groans and makes shooing gestures.

 _I wonder if I can ask Harry for some advice about how best to proceed with Gus, now that I know she’s… a virgin...?_ Blaise loses all traces of merriment as he soberly ponders the issue. _I’m freaking out a bit – what if I make her feel rushed, or pressured, without ever meaning to? What if I screw up her delicate trust by being too aggressive? I’m swimming in uncharted waters, and I can’t touch the bottom with my toes._

“Blaise? You have an odd look on your face,” Harry queries. “Why are you still here, anyway? You got what you came for,” he irritably points to the cotton pouch.

“Harry– do you– what would you– have you any– shit, forget it,” Blaise turns for the door. _I don’t think Gus would appreciate me discussing this issue with her_ boss _– see, this is exactly what I mean! You’re a dickhead, Blaise Nario Zabini. Keep walking._

“Thanks, Harry. I’ll return the cloak by nightfall.” He closes the door on Harry’s bemused mien.

* * *

Leaning against the sturdy old elm tree beside the swings, Blaise settles into position. His back is already mildly aching from having to awkwardly waddle from the shadows, given his lofty height and the coverage limitations of the borrowed invisibility cloak. He hunkers down another inch as the bottom hem reveals his gleaming brown leather shoes.

 _This_ must _be an antique – it was clearly fashioned when the average human height was four feet nothing,_ he grouses. _Can’t fault the workmanship, though – I’ve never felt, nor seen, the like. Heh – shouldn’t say seen, the whole point is you can’t see it… I wonder how many similar devices have been lost because of that contradictory feature…_

 _Hold up. Here’s trouble._ Blaise shuffles forward a few steps as two schoolboys rush through the playground, making a beeline for the semi-occupied double swing set.

“Geroff – this is our territory, fatty,” the young thugs waste no time tipping the fearful occupant of the left-hand swing into the dirt. “Sod off, ya chubby tosser.”

Blaise raises his wand, teeth gritting in wrath as he waits until the terrorized child has fled to the comparative safety of the metal slippery dip. Once both bullyboys have inserted themselves into the rubber seats and begun kicking their legs to set the swings in motion, Blaise whispers a Sticking Charm, followed by an acceleration spell.

He stifles his grim amusement as the boys start to understand that they are no longer in control of the swing set, each upward curve and reverse arc gathering alarming speed and momentum. Blaise casts a contained Atmospheric Charm, causing steady rain to fall (with the dual benefits of soaking both boys to the skin, and scattering the gathering interested crowd to seek shelter). Finally, he Muffliato’s their immediate surrounds.

“Wha-what’s happening, Mal?!” shrieks the smaller boy, his wheat-coloured hair flattened to his skull as the steady drizzle drips into his staring, scared eyes. “Make it stop!”.

“I can’t move me bloody hands – someone’s superglued ‘em to the chains!” Mal bellows, thrashing futilely against the magical entrapment. “Crap on a cracker, Luke– this ain’t funny! I think– I think I’m gonna – _blarghhhhhh_ –”.

Blaise retreats just before the lad upchucks the (extremely orange) contents of his stomach; about half of the vivid vomit falls back on the boy’s brown hair, since the regurgitation began midway through a forward swing. _A nasty lesson in physics, that. I suppose I shouldn’t force them to achieve every kid’s dream of achieving a true loop-de-loop, though I’m terribly tempted. Little arseholes._

The wild swinging finally slows, as the boys’ panicked tears meld with the raindrops pattering onto their fright-whitened faces. Once they’ve come to a wobbly stop and placed their feet back on the ground, Blaise directs his wand to his throat to disguise his voice.

“Malcolm and Luke! Listen up, you snivelling worms! This is the Mighty Prepotente, Vengeful Deity of Anti-Bullies and Protector of Playgrounds! I have witnessed your unkind, mean treatment of other children and can stay silent no longer!” Blaise thunders, in a severe, gravelly voice.

“Who’s there?! Preppy Tenty? Ain’t that the posh camping place where yer dad bought his fishing rod last year, Mal?” Luke squeaks.

“Shuddup, Luke!” Mal hollers. “This is bullshite, this is! Lemme go, ya bastid!”.

“Do you dare challenge Prepotente?! Do you wish for another example of my infinite power, fool?!?” Blaise nudges Mal’s swing forward; the boy whips his head from side-to-side in sudden capitulation. Luke keeps up a garbled stream of apologies and servile whimpers.

“Nuh– sorry, mister– I mean, Mr Prep– Prepo– mister,” Mal begs. “Whaddya want with us? We done nuthing wrong, we’re just kids!”.

“You have been mercilessly bullying other children for years, and getting away with it,” Blaise intones, disgust infused into every word. “You abuse them physically and verbally, and it stops right here. Today. I’ve given you a small taste of your own foul medicine, and you’ve literally choked on it.’

“I am granting you one chance to redeem your cruel, wicked ways; from this day forward, you will be responsible for ensuring that each child using this playground does not suffer a single insult or blow. It will be your job to protect them from the slurs and violence of other bullies. If you fail to change your horrid ways, or if you stray from your duties – know that I am watching, and I will not hesitate to return to wreak appropriate punishments. Do you accept my offer?” Blaise concludes.

“Yeah – but we can’t be here all the time, we’ve gotta go to school, ya know,” Mal sullenly points out. “An’ I hafta look after me little brother and sister, when me mum goes to work.”

“If I’m not home by quarter to five to let our dog Bruiser out, me dad gets wild,” Luke contributes. “Bruiser’ll pee in his boots – he’s done it afore.”

“Fine, fine– I mean, Prepotente is not without mercy,” Blaise gruffly amends. “Keep to your usual schedule of visiting the playground – but your bullying days are over, regardless of your location. You will be kind, respectful, and think before you speak or act; and remember to consider what other kids – well, other people – are going through, before you rush to judge them for being different, or unfamiliar. Agreed?”.

“Agreed,” the subdued lads together chorus. “Can we start tomorrow, mister? Please?”.

“Alright. Go home, think on your offences, and resolve to change for the better. Here – I will cleanse and dry you, as a gesture of good faith.” Blaise swiftly enacts the Scourgify and Hot Air incantations, before removing the Sticking Charm. “Begone.”

The bewildered schoolboys waste no time scarpering away, once they realize they’ve been freed. Blaise watches as they take pains not to knock into the other frolicking children; his admonition to cause no further harm seems to have taken root.

_Did I go too far? I hope not. Ah, stuff it – they were well overdue a lesson in empathy and humility, and I’ve not seriously injured either of them. Didn’t even give either boy a solid kick up the bum, much as I wanted to._

_I probably should have thought of a better name, however – ‘Preppy Tenty’ stopped me in my tracks,_ he chuckles, making his stooped way to the exit. _It_ was _darkly funny when Mal’s puke landed in his own hair – he might now rethink his choice of cheese puffs for afternoon tea._

_At the very least, my dear little Tavi won’t be bothered by them again. I’d move the moon for that kid if I could – the darling deserves every happiness. And more space to live in; they all do._

Worrying at his full lower lip, Blaise turns over the problem in his mind, as he makes his way to his chosen Disapparation spot.

_I’ll figure out a compromise… it’s what they pay me for, yeah? Diplomacy, unmatched charisma, and making miracles happen._

_The Mighty Prepotente can attest to that._

* * *

**French translation:**

_Fait chier –_ Damn it

**Italian translation:**

_Prepotente_ – Bully.


	76. Progression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to HarryPGinnyW4eva for coining Mac & Ruibby's couple name! I love it, I hope you guys do too.
> 
> And thank you to my generous and long-suffering beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5. You are amazing and I appreciate your help and friendship very much.
> 
> Hope everyone is well, happy, and safe. Thank you all for reading.
> 
> xoxo VJ

**_**Trigger warning: discussion of sexual abuse, therapy, and violent crime**_ **

_Tuesday 25 March 2003: PM_

“Alright, Harry; they’re ready for us.” Leopold Pritchard-Hawes pauses with his hand on the metal lever that opens the first barrier door to the temporary containment cells, currently housing Marcus Flint, Cormac McLaggen, and Barry Bones. “Are you certain you’ll be able to remain impartial, while we question Flint? There’s no shame in admitting that this one hits a shade too close to home, Harry,” the Head Auror soberly offers.

“I’m fine; I need to do this, sir.” Harry doesn’t flinch as he meets his supervisor’s critical gaze. “Yes, this case is personal – but I assure you, I won’t forget my responsibilities as an Auror. I’ve sworn an oath to uphold Wizarding law; it isn’t a vow I will ever take lightly.”

_I fully intend to do everything possible to see that every last participant in this disgusting scheme is unmasked, and punished to the full extent of the law. They will all pay dearly, for what they did to Hermione, Pansy, and the other women; and for what they intended to do._ Harry works to keep his face as expressionless as possible. _I **will** keep my cool, no matter what filth Flint spouts in there. _

Pritchard-Hawes must decide Harry is up to the task; he nods once, before depressing the lever. A series of heavy clicks and metallic screeches ensue.

Despite the permanent absence of the Dementors, the prison is yet terrifyingly bleak, both in aspect and atmosphere. The dark stone walls seem to close in as Harry and Leo walk silently down the long, wide corridor. Centuries of madness and misery have left their mark on the monolithic tower; though he considers himself mostly inured to superstitious horror, Harry is relieved they are visiting in the daytime.

_By Merlin, how did Sirius survive in this hellscape for twelve years?!_ His late godfather’s strength of will was truly incredible… and deeply humbling. _Considering how dire this prison seems – even with human guards and basic reforms in place – it’s hard to conceive anyone being able to maintain a semblance of sanity when the Dementors ruled supreme._

Giving himself a mental slap, Harry focuses on regulating his breathing, and sharpening his wits for the preliminary interview with Flint. Much to his disappointment, the courts had ruled that the DMLE needed to provide more evidence before the administration of Veritaserum could be legally administered; hence, the first round of questioning. Flint today, with Bones and McLaggen’s interviews to take place tomorrow. 

“We’re here. Flint’s lawyer is already inside, he was granted an hour’s consultation before our interview.” Leo gestures to the stark cell before them. The cell door is thick steel, with darkly glowing enchantments sealing its edges and radiating an unpleasant aura. There are only two openings in the solid door; a rectangular aperture at waist height (allowing for the passing in of food and drink), and a small, magical ‘eye’ window with the dual functions of observing the prisoner, and granting entry.

Pritchard Hawes points his badge at the eerie yellow eye, which shutters open in a disturbingly rapid blink. He recites his name and badge number, before beckoning Harry forward to replicate his actions. The eye swiftly spins as it processes their identification, before the door begins to grate and slide sideways.

Despite having visited Azkaban numerous times over the past five years, Harry is always jarred by the incongruity of the fluorescent lighting installed into the cells’ ceilings when Shacklebolt first began to reform the penitentiary. He’d asked the Minister about the choice of illumination when at the first opportunity.

“Well, Harry – the fluorescent tubes are magically powered, of course – they’re not entirely the same as your Muggle bulbs. We chose them because they were functional, yet harsh; this isn’t a place for warm pools of light to chase away the shadows,” Kingsley Shacklebolt had gravely informed, in his rich, deep tenor.

Now, Harry squints a little as he peers into the stark cell. A pale-faced Marcus Flint is seated on his narrow pallet, glaring balefully at them, while the middle-aged man standing beside him carefully folds a sheet of parchment in two, slipping the page into the pocket of his plain grey robes.

“Auror Potter, this is Mr Ganon Duffey, Mr Flint’s legal representative. Mr Duffey, Auror Harry Potter.” The men nod by way of greeting. Harry studies the lawyer, wondering why such an average-looking man has gone to the trouble of growing a luxuriant brown beard… though his mutton chops don’t include a moustache. _Note to self: never copy this style._

“Potter. Pritchard-Hawes. Be advised that my client will not answer any questions I deem objectionable or irrelevant. You should also know that Mr Flint is in possession of some important information as pertains to Mr McLaggen; and that we are not averse to bargaining for leniency in return for revealing this intelligence.” Ganon Duffey runs a hand over his meticulously groomed facial hair in a failed attempt to hide his tiny, smug smile.

_No fucking way._ Harry barely restrains himself from shouting aloud his immediate, infuriated reaction.

Leopold dispassionately replies, “We are willing to consider your proposition, provided the information that Mr Flint possesses genuinely contributes to the body of evidence against Mr McLaggen.” His hand twitches behind his back as he signals Harry to remain quiet. “However, your client will not be able to claim immunity, nor expect any serious reduction in the charges against him, given the mounting proof that he was involved up to his neck in this foul roofie plot. While I do have the authority to strike a deal, any small potential advantages granted to your client will be minor and relate to his inevitable prison sentence conditions, not the actual time served.”

_It’s still bloody bullshit – but at least Leo clarified the terms,_ Harry sourly reflects. _It’s not as if Flint is going to be allowed a feather pillow and matching wines with his daily gruel. I loathe the necessity of bargaining with scumbags, and I always will._

“That is unacceptable; I assure you, my client’s information is vital to your investigation,” Duffey blusters. “You may think you know the particulars; but I assure you, my client is himself a victim of intimidation and coercion,” he sniffs.

“Oh, he was _coerced_ into pushing Hermione Granger down a flight of stairs, was he? And he was _intimidated_ into funding and producing illegal potions to drug women with the intent to violate their bodies and steal their freedoms?” Harry snarls. “This interview is a formality – you’ll be asked the hard questions at trial soon enough, Flint. You can hire all the barristers you want, but your guilt is glaring, and proven.”

“I see you’ve yet to grow out of your self-righteousness, Potter – you always did think you knew everything, didn’t you? Blundering around from one crisis to another, ever convinced you held the moral superiority. Here’s something for you to chew on: Veritaserum is only as effective as knowing which questions need to be asked, isn’t it? You can drop all the liquid truth you like onto Cormac’s wicked tongue, but he won’t reveal all his secrets unless you know where to look,” Flint announces, idly swinging his legs to and fro as he shrugs carelessly. “Your call, of course. Don’t blame me if you never find all the answers you seek.”

“What is it you want?” Pritchard-Hawes abruptly queries. “Don’t expect the impossible. And I reiterate – there won’t be a reduction in sentence, unless your information is astonishingly enlightening.”

“A bigger cell. Exercise time doubled. Access to a minimum of three books per week, and visitors once a month. A future consideration for a reduction in sentence, dependent on Mr Flint completing a registered rehabilitation program for sex offenders, and good behaviour,” Duffey rapidly recites.

Holding up his palm for quiet this time, Leo promptly rebuts, “All the cells are the same size. One extra hour of exercise every four days. One book per week, and one visitor every three months. Consideration alone will be given for future compliance and good behaviour, not a guarantee of same. And none of these concessions will be upheld unless Mr Flint makes good on his boasts that he has vital new information.”

Watching the slow smirk spread across Marcus’s face, Harry’s pure rage threatens to spill; he bites the inside of his cheeks, the pain grounding him into staying still and quiet. _I despise the Dementors – but what I wouldn’t pay for one to swoop down right now and suck out Flint’s blackened soul. Rehabilitation, what bollocks. He knew exactly what he was doing, the slimy turd – and he did it because he liked it, not because Cormac McLaggen bullied him into it. Negotiating with these deviants sickens me to my core._

“We’ll need your offer in writing, Auror Pritchard-Hawes. As a gesture of good faith, my client is willing to tell you a few salient facts relating to Mr McLaggen… and the Manifesto. Marcus won’t tell you everything until both parties have signed off on the bargaining deal, you understand.”

Leo’s hands momentarily pressing hard against his furrowed brow lead Harry to believe that his boss is equally as disgusted by the compromise they’ve reached. The Head Auror’s tone is stoic as he intones, “We’ll have an agreement drawn up and ready to sign within an hour. Speak now, Mr Flint; my patience for this discussion is fast dwindling.”

Exchanging a last self-satisfied look with his solicitor, Flint begins to talk.

* * *

“Macdolas proposes a toast to Master Malfoy: congratulations on Master Malfoy’s appointment of a Hogwarts professorship–”

“ –Two partial professorships, Ruibby corrects her dearest, handsomest, smartest and most talented boyfriend and new Hogwarts employee!” she butts in, her ‘Red Rocket’ celebratory goblet of raspberry cordial and tonic water swirling as she happily lifts it high above the dining table.

“ –Two partial professorships, indeed; Macdolas thanks his sweetest, cleverest, prettiest and most wonderful girlfriend and new Hogwarts employee for her perspicacity! Her Most Honourable, Heroic, Harmonious, Hard-working, and Highly Heralded Headmistress Professor McGonagall kindly overlooks Master Malfoy’s academic shortcomings and shows great faith in Master’s ability to guide the human younglings’ impressionable minds and spirits! All hail Master Malfoy!” Macdolas merrily clamours, clinking his own Red Rocket to Hermione’s plain water tumbler.

Hermione sips her water to hide her small smile at Mac’s wordy toast ( _or should that be, ‘roast’?_ ) of Draco’s success in gaining the posts of Advanced Art teacher, and Associate Potions Professor.

“Hold up – what academic shortcomings, Macdolas?” Draco scowls, pulling back his own water glass as Mac and Ruibby stand on their dining chairs to wetly smack lips across the table. “I’ll have you know that I completed my N.E.W.T.s by correspondence, you judgey little shi–”

“Congratulations!” Hermione loudly interrupts, firmly guiding a still-cooing Mac back into his seat. “Mac was simply teasing, weren’t you, dear?” she prompts.

“Draco also completed an intensive Visual Arts course at one of the world’s most prestigious colleges, you know; _and_ he’s in charge of creating and implementing the new all-inclusive Hogwarts Adapted Art Therapy Program, Macdolas. I have every faith in him – as should you,” she gently chides the ebullient elf. “It was his idea to ask Headmistress McGonagall to interview you both, remember?”.

“Macdolas is very proud of Master Malfoy; Macdolas asks pardon for his good-natured badinage. He means no offence.” His ears flap as he again hollers, “All hail Master Malfoy!”.

Their goblets and glasses tinkle as they revisit the toast. Draco mouths ‘No more cordial’ at Hermione as the elven couple eagerly slurp down the entire contents of their chalices.

_He might have a point: they’ve already chugged down half a jug in the space of ten minutes,_ Hermione notices. Ruibby waves a languid pale hand to refill their glasses before Hermione can confiscate the bright crimson mixture.

“Are you enjoying your first taste of pizza, Ruibby?” Hermione enquires, as the diminutive sprite selects another slice from the box. “Harry always says it’s basically just a yummier way to eat a sandwich – hot bread, toppings, sauce, and cheese,” she grins.

“It’s delicious, Your Grace,” Ruibby agrees. “Though Ruibby is unused to eating with her hands, she is assured by Your Grace’s example.” She nods at the dribble of rich tomato paste dribbling down Hermione’s wrist.

_Aaaaand now I feel like a proper little piggy,_ Hermione wryly muses. _Harry was right when he said our elves lead us by the nose, even if he didn’t specifically include me at the time. This late takeaway supper is exactly what we all needed, after everyone’s big day._

“Are you alright, Hermione? You look a little tired, _ma petite_.” Draco reaches out his hand to stroke tenderly along the ball of her thumb. “I wish you’d let me accompany me to therapy, darling.”

_Sweet Aphrodite – I adore this man._ Hermione flips her hand to thread together their fingers, marvelling at the paler tone of his skin against hers. “I know, and I appreciate your offer very much; perhaps next time? Today it was important to me to support Pansy, and for her to support me, Draco. She said she liked Dr Rica, and she’s already scheduled her follow-up appointments. My session was a tad rough in spots, but that was to be expected – given all I had to vent about,” she smiles ruefully. “It felt good to expunge some of the horror of Cormac’s dreadful dungeon, and my initial feelings of vulnerability and remembered terror, when his roofie potion took effect.”

“McLaggen’s extremely lucky he still breathes,” Draco growls beneath his breath. “I know, I know, I shan’t harp on my fervent wish for his early demise.”

“Macdolas would draw and quarter the fell McLaggen, and bathe in his blood! Use his guts for garters, grind his bones to dust, and– and– urinate on his scattered teeth!” he shrieks, hopping up onto his chair again. All it takes is one stern look from Ruibby for a chastened Mac to clamber back down.

“That’s definitely your last Red Rocket, you feral scamp,” Draco warns, flicking his wrist to magically pour the rest of the contents of the cordial jug down the kitchen sink. “Have you told Hermione the great news about your Hogwarts living arrangements?” he urges, grinning mischievously.

Mac blushes as he shyly reveals, “The Highly Heralded Headmistress McGonagall offers Macdolas and Ruibby a special [his voice drops to a whisper] _conjugal suite_ ; Macdolas wishes to formally ask his darlingest Ruibby to do him the greatest honour of living with him in socially-sanctioned domestic bliss, viz and to wit a one bedroom apartment complete with kitchenette, sunken bath and built-in linen closet,” he speaks in a rush.

_Oh, heavens! For a moment there, I thought Mac was about to propose!_ Hermione gently rubs his quivering back as he awaits Ruibby’s response.

The beaming blonde fey maidservant squeaks, “Ruibby asks Macdolas to share _her_ domain, as Headmistress McGonagall advises Ruibby she may decorate the allotted quarters as she wishes… would Macdolas care to help Ruibby select curtains and towels, and further decorate our sweet love shack?”.

With a jubilant snap of his fingers, Mac Apparates to stand beside his beloved, hugging her tightly as Draco is startled into knocking over the basket of fresh, fragrant garlic bread. “For the love of Snakes, Macdolas – give a man some warning!”. He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully at the petite pair as Hermione claps for joy.

“You just screamed a little, Draco – you can’t blame Mac for your skittish nature,” she hoots. “What are you trying to say, my love? I don’t speak Haughty Eyebrow, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t you have a something you wish to discuss with Ruibby and Macdolas, Hermione? An important, timely issue… that rhymes with inception, perhaps?” Draco prods. He admonishes the embracing little lovers: “Look, the both of you don’t fit properly in that chair, and I’d rather you didn’t paw at each other right beside me, thanks.”

Coming up for air, Mac merely smiles beatifically. “’MacRu’ are listening, Your Grace Lady Granger.”

Stifling her hysterical laughter at their conjoined couple name, Hermione begins, “Umm… Draco and I just want to be sure that… well, we thought we should check, with regard to… contraception charms. Specifically, that you’re both… casting contraceptive charms, or perhaps using a potion… or both? Also, you’re taking… appropriate measures every time, yes?” she weakly concludes. _This was more difficult than I anticipated… why am I feeling so squeamish? It’s just sex, right? I’m an educated woman – there’s nothing icky about this. Draco can wipe that smirk off his face, he’s the Elvish Sexpert now, not me._

Ruibby grabs at a fold of Mac’s royal purple robes to cover her head, leaving Macdolas as the spokesperson for MacRu. “Every time – of course, Your Grace,” he mumbles, looking everywhere but at Hermione or Draco.

“Beforehand? You remember to cast the charms _beforehand_ , right?” Draco presses.

“Y-Yes,” Macdolas and Ruibby exchange a brief, worrisome glance.

_I’m going to pretend that was an expression of mutual confidence, rather than shared uncertainty. Subject change!_ Hermione rushes into speech.

“Did I mention that Dad texted me? Narcissa has invited them to Friday night dinner at the Manor,” Hermione shrills. “With females and males to separate after the meal, to discuss… topics of interests,” she lamely finishes, remembering just in time that Mac’s birthday party is to be a surprise.

“ _Faire foutre_ ,” Draco breathes, his eyes widening in horror. “Our mothers – _and_ our fathers – in the one room?! Granger, we have to stop this – you have to stop this! Lucius’s icy temper is volatile at the best of times– and then there’s _your_ father–”

“What of my father? Are you suggesting he’s too plebian to be able to attend a simple dinner at your stately mansion, Malfoy?” Hermione’s dander is up in a second. “He’s a university educated, successful dentist with an amazing social presence and a genuine interest in the world and people around him – you needn’t worry that _my_ father will be the one to engender any disasters of etiquette or breeding, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco is out of his chair and by her side in a heartbeat. Were she not pissed off, Hermione would chuckle at the symmetry between Draco and Mac’s recent romantic behaviours.

“Hermione Granger, I apologize profusely. I never, _ever_ meant to imply that your father lacked social graces, nor tact; I am worried about my sire’s ability to keep a civil tongue in his mouth, and to not insult your parents by word or deed,” he gravely replies, lightly holding her stiff hands in his and kissing the corners of her primmed mouth. “It will be an honour and a privilege to welcome them both to my family home, _ma chérie_.”

Her lingering resistance melts as Draco’s lips drift lovingly across her eyelids and brows, each tiny smooch sending a butterfly-soft tingle down her fine nerve endings. _He’s my smooth, sexy, sweet-hearted Snake… I do know that he likes and respects Dad, and that their initial hostility is all but dissolved._

“Do you promise to not serve Dad any over-spiced meats, or trick him with the elaborate cutlery settings?” Hermione asks. “I’ll give him a pre-dinner lecture about not hassling any of the elves about their teeth, if you instruct Lucy to avoid any kind of anti-Muggle rhetoric, or disdain for our far lesser fortune,” she teases.

“Darling, I swear I won’t seek any form of revenge for Barney’s silly peri-peri chicken stunt, nor will I attempt to bamboozle him with fifteen slightly different fancy forks,” Draco moves down her face to kiss her ear. She shivers in pleasure as the tip of his tongue traces the outer shell.

“Lucius doesn’t talk like that anymore – honestly, I don’t believe he still thinks in terms of Muggle-born/Pureblood, not since the War. Plus, Mother would never have invited your parents if she weren’t wholly confident that Father will be on his very best behaviour. I’m sorry that my initial reaction was to borrow panic,” Draco delicately bites her lobe.

“Though… I feel we should both be prepared for any eventuality, from fireworks to floods,’ he snickers. “I truly have no idea what to expect from their first meeting – but it’s bound to be dramatic, in some form or another.”

_I can’t argue with that assessment._ Hermione sends up a silent prayer to Dionysus. _May Dad behave appropriately; may he respect other people’s boundaries; and whatever else he stumbles over, may he NOT ask Lucius Malfoy for a ‘quick butcher’s at his fangs’. Amen._

“I’m sorry, I overreacted. I know Dad’s a bit much, sometimes – but he really does have a huge heart, he just takes some getting used to,” Hermione sighs, slipping her fingers underneath Draco’s loosened business shirt and running her fingertips around his neck. “Hey – at least we’ll be on hand if things start to go south, right?” she temporizes.

“Right – might not be a bad idea to keep our wands on the table,” Draco jests. “Maybe we should run a quick refresher course on our dousing and shielding charms, too – just in case.” He finally kisses her mouth, pleasure swamping her senses and quickening her heart rate. “ _Je t’aime,_ Hermione. _Pour toujours.”_

“I love you, Draco. Always,” Hermione repeats, tears brimming in her weary eyes. “Are we OK?”.

“We’re better than OK – we’re absolutely amazing together, and everyone recognizes that unalienable truth,” Draco emphatically answers. “Come up to bed? You must be exhausted, you’ve been slaving away at the Ministry salt mines all day, and then the counselling sessions… let me take care of my gorgeous witch, please.”

“Oh, well… if you insist,” Hermione smiles, rising to stand in the loving circle of his arms. “Wait – you mentioned something earlier, about our plans for Saturday?”.

“Yes; Harry asked me to make up the numbers for an informal Quidditch match on Saturday afternoon; would you mind if I went along? I have my old Slytherin Seeker’s uniform ready to go… you may wish to dig out that Gryffindor set I appropriated from your wardrobe cull, when I return home,” he insinuates the last sentence directly into her ear.

_Oh… oooohhhh_. Hermione’s breath shortens as a wild variety of uniform fantasies run through her head in flashes of heat, each scenario lewder than the one preceding. “I’ll come along – to cheer you on,” she quickly declares.

“You want to watch our game? Well, well, well,” Draco all but preens like his family’s famous peacocks, his slate eyes glimmering. “I’d like that very much, Hermione.” He revolves to address the elves.

“Mac, Ruibby – would you clean up our dinner, please? Congratulations on your dual appointments, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Goodnight,” Draco surprises Hermione by bending in front of her. “Hop on – it’s piggyback time, _ma petite_. Just to mix it up a little – and I am in dire need of some strength training, if I’m to avoid humiliating myself on Saturday,” he explains.

Climbing onto his back as best she can, Hermione waves goodnight to their big-eyed elves; Draco pretends to buck as he dashes for the doorway, her dangling legs secured beneath his arms. “Malfoy! Stop it, you know I’m uncomfortable with heights!”.

“Granger, I’m not _that_ tall,” he wheezes, laughing like a drain until she digs in her heels. “Ouch! Alright, I’ll be good.”

“Not too good, I hope…” she purrs, before laying her head against his upper back. “I like you a little bad, _mon serpent coquin et sexy_.”

Draco gallops up the stairs as though he’s being timed, making her giggle even harder; Hermione ignores the uneven jouncing as she revels in the contact with his warm, strong young body.

_Saturday seems like an awfully long way away, all of a sudden…_

* * *

“Pansy? It’s just me – Harry, I mean. Hello?”.

She pauses in the act of reaching for her silky pyjama top. “Harry? Hold on – I'll be right out, I just got out of the shower.” Pansy hurriedly thrusts her arms into the sleeves of her pale green and cream _Chirimen_ crape kimono, tightly wrapping the matching Obi belt. There is a fraught quality to Harry’s voice that urges her to make haste; Pansy shoves her feet into her slippers and hustles into her lounge room.

Harry is standing with his back to her, his hands scrunching at his black hair. _If he’s trying to smooth the clumps, he’s making a hash of things,_ Pansy ponders, smiling at his rather endearing habit. _A few weeks ago, it drove me around the twist seeing him charging about with ‘mad Muggle scientist’ hair – now I think I prefer it messy. He’d look odd with it all combed down flat and tidy... ugh, I need to dial down the sap factor, pronto._

She clears her throat. “Harry? Hi… is everything OK?”

He pivots on one heel, his stricken face answering her hesitant question, though he attempts a wan smile. “Hi, love – I'm sorry to burst in on you like this– I had– I had to see you, I had to reassure myself–” he jerks his arms forward, dropping them at his side as he shakes his head. “It’s silly, I can see you’re OK, I apologize for disturbing you– " he breaks off.

Pansy nearly trips on her loose slipper as she dashes forward, flinging herself against his chest. “What’s wrong, Harry? Please, unburden yourself... I’m listening,” she prompts, tilting her head to scan his pallid features.

“How was therapy?” Harry peers intently into her eyes, holding her gently with his hands clasped at the small of her back.

“Therapeutic,” Pansy offers, smiling wryly. “We can talk about that later – you look like a man in desperate need of a hug, and you’ve come to exactly the right place,” she tenderly squeezes his hips, through his robes. “Sit down with me?”. She guides him to the chintz snug, worried anew by his unsteady breathing.

“Pansy, it’s OK, we can just sit quietly... I just... I want to be near you, for a little while,” Harry rasps, knuckling at his eyes and knocking his glasses half off his nose. The fact that he doesn’t make a grab for the endangered spectacles is alarming.

Plucking the glasses from the side of his nose, Pansy folds down the arms before slipping them onto the coffee table. “Harry, please talk to me. Let me be strong for you... love,” she enunciates the pet name in a nervy whisper.

The sentiment doesn’t go unnoticed. Harry’s drawn face briefly brightens, his trembling fingers reverently stroking her cheek. “My warm-hearted, beautiful Pansy,” he murmurs.

Tucking her face into his palm, Pansy waits for Harry to confide in her. Seconds tick by as Harry charts her face, jaw, and neck, his fingertips delicately skating over her slightly damp skin.

“We went to Azkaban today – Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes and I,” Harry finally begins to tell his tale. His restless hands continue to caress her throat, his thumbs running carefully along the length of her clavicle exposed by the kimono’s wide neck.

“We interviewed Marcus Flint: he and his uppity lawyer struck a deal. Flint offered to reveal more of McLaggen’s secrets, in exchange for certain small privileges, when he serves his sentence. I hated bargaining with him – I wish it weren’t necessary – " he chokes and coughs.

“Hey, it’s OK,” Pansy soothes. Her stomach clenches as she hesitantly asks, “Is there more bad news… about those photos?”.

“No, no… I mean, Marcus did tell us where to find their hidden list of ‘subscribers’ – that’s their euphemism for the network of sick fucks – sorry, the sickos who invested in the roofie potion research and development, and the online and mail order pornography exchange,” Harry elucidates. “Pansy – I’m an idiot, I didn’t think about this triggering you, especially after your first proper counselling session–”

“Harry, I’m alright. Really. But I _am_ terribly worried about you, so if you want to make me cry out of concern, you’re going the right way about it,” Pansy’s words convey her affectionate exasperation. She enfolds his hands within hers. “A problem shared is a problem halved, yes? Tell me. I can handle it.”

“You’re too good to me, Pansy.” Harry’s grip momentarily increases on her fingers.

_Whatever this is – it’s got him tied up in knots._ Smiling tremulously, Pansy nods her encouragement.

“Marcus reckons Cormac murdered his uncle Tiberius – he said he drowned him in the bath tub. Held his head underwater after he dropped around and heard Tiberius crying out for help after falling down when he tried to get out. Said it was well past time the old bastard coughed up Cormac’s rightful inheritance.” Harry sucks in a lungful of air after his revelation.

“Cormac – killed his uncle? Just… just like that?” Pansy didn’t expect this. She makes a conscious effort to close her mouth, lest she look completely gormless.

“Just like that,” Harry echoes. “Marcus said Cormac boasted about the thrill of watching Tiberius’s ineffectual struggles – of watching the life drain from his eyes, as he held him underwater.” Harry’s whole body shudders. “Pansy, I knew he was evil – but this?! Thinking about what he could have done, to you and Hermione, if you hadn’t fought back and stopped him–” Harry snatches back his hands, using them to hide his ashen face.

“Harry, we did fight back – we’re OK, it’s OK,” Pansy keeps up a repetitive patter, scooching closer, rubbing Harry’s back and gently peeling away his hands from his grievously troubled visage. His gorgeous gem-green eyes are inflamed from exhaustion and anguish, his dark lashes damp and spiky.

_Oh, my poor Harry… my poor love…_ Pansy wiggles to straddle his lap, curving her hand to the back of his mussed head and pressing him to her breast. “Shhh, it’s alright, we’re alright, Harry,” she softly hums, feeling his silent tears dampening the vee of her kimono. “Cormac and Marcus can’t hurt us now – they won’t hurt anyone, not anymore.”

Harry responds by clasping her tighter, his ragged respiration slowly steadying. He doesn’t move his head as Pansy lovingly combs the bristly hanks with her fingers. She smiles ruefully when she checks her handiwork. _I’ve only managed to create new clusters of his wild locks._

“Harry? Do you think that maybe you should register your hair with the Ministry? I genuinely believe it’s a life form all its own, and should be classified as such,” Pansy lightly teases him.

“Sirius said my dad’s hair was exactly the same,” Harry mumbles into her skin; she feels his small smile. “Are you saying it’s a magical beast or a creature, Pansy?”

“Perhaps a combination of the two? Like if someone crossed a Puffskein with a Diricawl, and somehow permanently affixed it to your skull? The good news is, it would definitely be rated as ‘Harmless / May Be Domesticated’ – unless an attempt is made to tame it with a flimsy hairbrush or comb,” Pansy chuckles.

“That’s most unkind, love,” Harry cranes back his neck; Pansy is deeply relieved to witness him smiling up at her. “You’re calling my innocent mop a ‘Puffcawl’… or should that be, a ‘Diriskein’? What a mean little Snake.” His smile widens as she pokes out her tongue to blow a derisive raspberry.

Ceasing her razzing, Pansy fondly kisses Harry’s brow. “I favour the term ‘Puffcawl’, myself. No, your hair’s perfectly lovely, Harry. I could run my fingers through it for hours,” she confesses.

“Pansy… thank you. I’m sorry I had a bit of a meltdown,” Harry quietly replies. “Everything kind of hit me at once… I had to see you, I had to reassure myself that you’re well, and unharmed. Marcus… he told us a lot more, about their history together, and how it all started – but I’ll inform you of that another time, if you don’t mind. Can I just hold you a while, love? Please?” he implores, his eyes still a little glassy as they rove her face.

“Of course – you’re my boyfriend, remember? You’re the only guy who gets to hold me whenever he likes,” Pansy shyly asserts. “As it happens, I rather adore being in your arms, Harry Potter.”

“Not half as much as I adore being in yours, Pansy Parkinson,” Harry earnestly avers. “I’m going to cuddle and kiss you until you tell me to stop, love.”

“Your lips and arms will get sore,” Pansy warns. “This could take all night.”

“I bloody well hope so,” Harry solemnly declares. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Pansy.”

_By Morgana – if he keeps saying things like that, our ‘unhurried courtship’ is going to skip about five important phases,_ Pansy admits, as she gazes down into Harry’s ardent, blinking eyes. _He’s as blind as a badger without his glasses – but I’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to mistake his sincerity._

“Did I say something wrong, love?” Harry tentatively enquires, as the she stays silent a beat too long.

“Not at all – I’m struggling to say something that doesn’t make me sound like a giddy teenager with a crush,” Pansy sighs. “Forget your crazy hair – _you_ should come with a warning label: too good to be true.”

“Hardly,” Harry demurs. “Tell me about therapy, Pansy. I’ve been wondering all day, about how you went… well, I’ve been thinking of you all day, love.” He adjusts his grip on her waist as he adds, “Please – I’d really like to hear about it… whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

“Oh… well… OK, but it’s boring, Harry. Dr Rica was friendly, and kind, just like Hermione said; and she specializes in… sexual abuse cases. I mean, I’ve already been through some intensive therapy, when I first remembered… anyway, she asked me what I wanted to talk about. We just sat there for five minutes, I felt like bolting,” Pansy acknowledges, sitting back on her haunches.

Harry leans against the back of the couch. “Here, let me hold you properly, Pansy. Swing round your legs to sit sideways in my lap? That’s the way.” He smooths down her kimono as it threatens to gape apart, bracing her back with his left arm and petting her hip with his right. “Keep talking, honey.”

_Honey? That’s new. I like it._ Pansy happily snuggles closer. “It wasn’t an unpleasant silence… just a little awkward. Eventually I started telling her about how angry and helpless I felt, when Cormac used me as bait, then Petrified me; and the next thing I knew, I was talking nineteen to the dozen and making huge hand gestures,” she rolls her eyes self-deprecatingly.

“Dr Rica let me ramble. She said that her approach to therapy concentrates on expressing emotion and discussing past experiences, identifying recurring patterns and themes, and focusing on interpersonal relationships, as well as exploring wishes and dreams and fantasies… anyway, she seemed very genuine and didn’t lay on the psychobabble too heavily.” Pansy fiddles with Harry’s hair again. “I didn’t get into much of… what happened when I was a little girl. I mean, I mentioned it briefly… did you know that some studies estimate that sexual violence affects one in three women, and one in four men, over the course of their lifetimes?”.

“No… I didn’t know… that’s an appalling statistic, love. I’m sorry,” Harry kisses the crown of her head before tucking her hair out of her eyes.

“I was raised to never speak of such things – Purebloods love to pretend everything is fine and dandy, you know. Appearances are everything, and little girls do as they’re told… little boys too, I suppose,” she frowns. “Dr Rica said we’ll work together on finding a psychotherapy method that works for me; she said it’s important to be open and honest if something isn’t working, or if I feel we’re not making progress. It’s a good start, I guess.’

“Sorry, I’ve been babbling on,” Pansy shifts restively. “Would you like something to eat? I made a lemon and ricotta pasta for dinner, with pecorino cheese and some fresh basil leaves, and there was plenty left over: let me up, and I’ll heat you a bowl.” She tries to rise, but Harry has other ideas.

“That sounds wonderful, Pansy; but first I’d like to hear more, about your day. You still haven’t gotten around to telling me about all the businesses you own or manage, hmmm? My girlfriend is a very smart, successful witch, and I’m keen to know how many pies she has her pretty little fingers in.” Harry nibbles at her fingertips, growling for added effect as Pansy shrieks delightedly.

“Eewww – that’s gross, Harry – fingers in pies!” she giggles. “I won’t give you any dessert, if you keep this up.”

“You’re the only sweet I want to taste, love,” Harry’s lips skim her quivering mouth, little passes that leave her aching for more. “Kiss me, Pansy,” he entreats, in a voice not entirely steady.

_There’s an idea I can get behind._ Pansy takes her time, mirroring his slanted kisses and lightly flickering tongue; she wonders if Harry is aware of the tiny mewls of pleasure he is making in the back of his throat, as she leads him on a deliberately maddening exploration of each other’s mouths.

_Remind me to send Ginny Weasley a big thank you card (assuming she taught him how to kiss like this),_ Pansy muzzily reflects, as their explorative smooches develop into full-blown, impassioned lip-locks. _My arousal level has gone from simmering to boil-over in the space of five minutes! Damn… I can’t wait until we take things to the next level!_

“Harry?” she manages to gasp.

“Mmmphff – yes, love?”

“Is this us ‘going slowly’?”

“Uh… yes?”

“Just checking,” Pansy tugs Harry’s head back down, her greedy lips taking bold possession of his mouth.

_Scratch sending Ginny a measly old card – this level of hot expertise deserves a gift basket._

* * *

**French translation:**

_Faire foutre –_ Fucking hell.

_mon serpent coquin et sexy –_ my naughty, sexy snake.


	77. Disheartenment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my stellar beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5; your brainwaves and wisdom have inspired many wonderful scenarios (and prevented a few disasters, LOL). I appreciate your time, support, and friendship immensely.
> 
> Special mention and thanks to:  
> @bex_is_a_slytherin for cleverly suggesting Tavi's prompt to Kreacher;  
> @Asoreleks, who thoughtfully hypothesized about the enslaved house elves' torment in not being able to help their little mistresses and masters, in the past;  
> and @Ana_8563, who recently corrected much of my wonky French from previous chapters.  
> I am also greatly indebted to @Amber_26 and @sweeteangel1 for all their ongoing French corrections and suggestions.  
> All your help is truly marvellous - THANK YOU. 
> 
> As ever, a huge thank you to all my dear readers.  
> May you all be safe, well, and happy.  
> xoxo VJ.

_****Trigger warning: misogynistic, bigoted, ableist and all-round offensive language used by Cormac McLaggen; mention of violence, murder, child pornography, pedophilia, and planned sexual assault**** _

_***some light spanking in the Dramione scene (unrelated to the above)*** _

* * *

__

_Wednesday 25 March 2003: AM_

After banging once on Blaise’s closed office door, Gus figures that the garbled masculine sound she hears coming from behind it is permission enough to grant entry. She doesn’t repress her smirk as she enters to witness Blaise choking on his tiny cup of espresso, small dribbles of hot coffee soaking into his baby blue business shirt.

“Oh, I do beg pardon; what a shame,” she drawls, widening her topaz eyes in pretended contrition.

“You know, Gussie… I’d be much more inclined to believe you meant that, if you weren’t currently grinning from ear to beautiful ear,” Blaise shakes his head, his own smile flashing attractively on his handsome face. Using his matching blue silk handkerchief, he mops ineffectually at the brown stains marring his shirt, before giving it away as a lost cause.

Flinging down the soiled hankie, he prowls around his desk until he is within half a foot of where Gus stands. She wills herself to hold her ground, even as her body sways closer. _Dammit, he’s like a magnet – I get drawn in every time._

“Good morning, Gussie,” Blaise leans forward, pressing a kiss to her mouth with excruciating daintiness. Gus pushes her tongue between his firm lips before she can stop herself. _Just one quick kiss…_

Two minutes later, she forces herself to draw away, her head spinning with rampant arousal and her breathing erratic. Sliding her hands from Blaise’s neck and shoulders, Gus blinks in surprise at his thoroughly ravished appearance. His patterned blue and slate tie is skew-whiff, a couple of his top buttons are undone, and his close-cropped hair bears the marks of her avid fingers, like tiny plough lines. _He only held his hands steady on my hips while I was desperately trying to undress him like a total horndog. What’s gotten into me?!_

“I – erm – good morning, Blaise,” she mumbles, both loving and hating his smugly delighted expression. “I came to see you because…” her mind blanks, adding to her mounting embarrassment.

“…Because you were dying to kiss me? Because you wanted to start your morning with your recommended daily serve of The Great Zabini? Because you couldn’t go another minute without plunging your sweet, sweet lips onto mine, and shamelessly groping my burly buttocks?” he suggests, gripping the edge of his desk with both hands and cackling uproariously at her disgruntled mien. “Oh, Gussie – you can’t deny the last charge, my bum is tingling madly from your ardent fondlings,” he saucily winks.

Irritation clears Gus’s woolly brain in an instant. “Ha! I came to see ‘The Great Zabini’ –” she makes scornful finger quotations – “because I have a few questions for him, after Tavi and Mrs Green returned from the playground yesterday with an _extremely_ interesting tale of reformed bullies and a mysterious spectre… a powerful phantom, invisible to all, apart from a few glimpses of his brown leather shoes.” Gus pointedly drops her gaze to Blaise’s highly polished footwear, before raising her eyes to his startled ones.

“Brown leather shoes? How… fashionable,” the lying Snake prattles, as he makes a big production of refastening his buttons and straightening his tie. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Gus?” he waves at the large, gleaming Muggle machine sitting stop his window sideboard.

“Don’t think you can seduce me away from the subject with your posh, hideously expensive, doubtlessly delicious coffee, Blaise Zabini: I _know_ you were involved in this bizarre caper… you were in it up to your neck, weren’t you? _You’re_ the strange ‘Preppy Tenty’, aren’t you?” Gus advances as he scrambles back to stand behind his fancy office chair, his long fingers clamping onto the leather.

“You can tell me,” she abruptly changes tactics, running her forefinger along his strong cheekbone and jaw. “I know you did something to avenge Tavi… didn’t you… Blaisey?” she purrs.

“Gussie – that’s not fighting fair – Sweet Salazar, you’re killing me, woman,” he groans, as her wandering finger lightly traces the outline of his plush mouth. “I’m trying to take this at your pace – but all I want to do right now is lock my door, strip you down to your birthday suit, and pleasure you until you’re screaming my name in pure bliss, _la mia bellissima aquila_.” Blaise whines as she slides the tip of her finger between his parted lips.

 _Venus wept – I can’t think of a better way to spend my morning, either._ Gus gives serious contemplation to taking up his impassioned offer, as the sinfully sexy man slowly sucks on her digit, sending ripples of sweltering arousal spinning through her system. His sexy dark eyes clearly communicate his fervid desire, his dilated pupils just a shade darker than his coal-black irises.

 _No – I’m at work, and I’ve barely known the man a week – he’s not going anywhere, and neither am I._ Gus tugs free her finger and steps back a few paces. Afraid her voice will betray her raging need for him, she waits for him to speak first.

“Sure you don’t want a– a coffee?” Blaise squeaks. “No?”.

“No. Thank you.” Gus scratches at her nose. “Look, I just wanted to say that I appreciate what you did… Mr _Preppy Tenty_. Mrs Green said to tell you that you’re ‘a geet, canny bugger for givvin the wee hoonds a gud yarkin’; and that you’re ‘proper grayne’… that means you’re family now, Blaise.”

Blinking rapidly, Blaise looks at her as though she’s just announced he’s in line for an Order of Merlin. “Family…” he slowly repeats. “I’m… proper grayne,” he tests the words. The joyful wonder spreading across his face impels Gus to fold him into a quick, tight hug. He squeezes her back, his chest expanding with quiet happiness.

“I should go – Harry’s left me in charge while he’s back interviewing the scummy shitwits at Azkaban, and I intend to lord it over Kolt as much as I can,” Gus jokes, reluctantly ending their embrace. “Thanks, Blaise.”

“It’s nothing – thank _you_ , Gussie. Would you like to join me for lunch? Gelsy packed me too much food, I’ll get pudgy if I eat it all myself,” he slaps at his toned stomach.

 _Don’t go thinking about all the hot male flesh under his hand and shirt – be smart, Gus._ She wrenches away her fascinated gaze. “Sure – that sounds good. Beats the daily special at the cafeteria – ‘What Was it Once? Wednesdays’, as Kolt calls it,” she nods.

“Yeah – Faulkner’ll have to risk it today, he’s not invited,” Blaise states, his joviality dimming. “Come round about half past twelve, if that suits?”.

“OK. Hey, did Harry invite you to play in the work Quidditch match on Saturday?” Gus asks.

“Yes – I was going to ask if you wanted to come watch me in action?” he puffs out his chest. “I’m considered a mighty fine Beater, if I do say so myself.”

 _Oooh… I’m really going to enjoy Saturday now,_ Gus decides, keeping her exultation to herself. “I’ll think about it,” she nonchalantly shrugs. “Tavi loves attending Quidditch matches; she’s quite bloodthirsty, and cheers whenever anyone gets conked in the face.”

“Excellent. Would you please ask Nella to come, too? I’ll ask Gelsy to prepare a picnic hamper for us all to enjoy after the match.” Blaise scribbles down a note on a scrap of parchment. “I can’t wait, Gussie.”

“I’d best get back. See you in a few hours, Blaise.” Gus turns for the door before she rushes in to kiss the charming wizard again.

 _Well, he didn’t explicitly admit to teaching those juvenile bullies a lesson; but his face – and his shoes! – definitely gave him away._ _The clever, big-hearted, sexy wretch._

Gus chortles as she swiftly makes her way back to Harry’s office, thinking of how she will surprise Blaise at Saturday’s game.

_‘A fine Beater’, indeed. I’ll be the judge of that, Preppy Tenty._

* * *

_Wednesday 25 March 2003: Noon_

“Keep your hands where I can see them – I need to talk to you both.” Pansy barges into Hermione’s office without so much as a cursory knock. “Sweet Circe, Hermione – how have you been able to get any work done, what with Draco constantly pawing at you?!”.

Draco reluctantly retracts his grabby fingers. _I knew I should have locked Hermione’s door – I’m becoming quite aggrieved by how casually everyone seems to invade everyone else’s space in this farce of a workplace. Two more days… just two more ruddy days…_

“Pansy! Hi!” Hermione leaps from Draco’s lap, running to embrace her friend. “What’s up? You look a little stressed.”

“I need some advice. From both the female and male perspective – and you two are it. Wipe that pained grimace off your ivory mug, Draco. It’s nothing particularly explicit – that’s the damned problem,” Pansy snaps.

“Look, maybe I should go procure us all something to eat–” Draco’s attempt to slither from the room is cancelled when Hermione blocks the door, gesturing for him to take the other spare chair; Pansy nods smugly as he flops into it.

“Fine. I suppose more sex talk is nothing, compared to having a couple of randy house elves potentially ignoring our sound contraception advice and taking every opportunity to noisily copulate all over our property,” Draco grumbles.

“Yeah – that sounds hilarious – but you can catch me up later, this is about me and Harry,” Pansy dismisses his rant with an elegant, imperious wave. “I want your opinion on whether I should ask him to stay the night… as in, _properly_ stay the night. Is it too soon? Like, I really want to… _ohmigod_ , Hermione, I know you think of him as your brother, but are you aware of how _cut_ Harry is? Like I’m talking, _seriously_ fit – we really got into it last night, on my couch, and I swear my living room windows were fogged up worse than his glasses when we finally called a time-out–”

“Stop!” Draco and Hermione cry out, almost simultaneously. Despite his own discomfort at the unwanted images of Pansy and Harry now swimming through his mind, Draco sniggers at Hermione’s appalled mien. _Oh, darling – you should know by now that Pansy gives ‘forthright’ a whole new meaning._

“Double standard prigs!” Pansy shrills, pointing an accusing finger at them in turn. “The gall of you pair! Shagging in Ministry cupboards, yet unwilling to listen to some tame tales of heavy petting and mad snogging! I’m outraged,” she quibbles.

“Well, feel free to not tell us anything more,” Draco figures it’s worth a shot. “Hey – how did you know about that?!”. He shakes his head as Hermione giggles.

“Pfft – as if I’d stop now. Leave Pollyanna alone, you should be glad she’s proud of your dirty little dalliance. Now, answer me, please: do you think Harry will think less of me if I tell him I’m ready to move forward, with the physical side of our relationship? Will he think that’s a bit… sluttish? I know men have some weird ideas about this; and the other thing is, I’m concerned that maybe I’ll… disappoint him. What – what do you guys think?” Pansy anxiously pleats at her multi-layered black silk skirt.

Draco firmly clasps Pansy’s fidgety hand in his. “I think you have nothing to worry about, Pansy. _You are not a slut_ – and if Harry heard you say that, he’d be rightly irate. He’s insanely lucky to be your boyfriend, and he knows it. The only question you really should be thinking hard about is whether or not _you’re_ ready to take things further. There isn’t some arbitrary date whereby you have to perform ‘X’ or ‘Y’, Pans. Do you not feel safe with Harry? Has he been pressuring you?”. He inadvertently squeezes her hand a bit too forcefully as his temper creeps up. “Sorry!”.

“No – of course not – Harry doesn’t stop checking with me, verbally and physically – he’s pretty much the most trustworthy, genuine, safest man on the planet,” Pansy instantly defends. “Don’t you dare have a go at him, Draco – this is my issue, not his.”

“Pansy, I wholly agree with what Draco said. Are _you_ ready? Is Harry ready? He has insecurities of his own, you know – well, I’m positive Harry will tell you himself, when the time’s right. I do know that he will wait for you for years and years, if that’s what it takes,” Hermione thoughtfully contributes. “I’d advise sitting down and talking with him about all this, Pansy. You said it yourself; Harry’s just about the sweetest wizard in the world,” she smiles.

“Oh? What am I, chopped dragon liver?!” Draco bemoans. “I can be sweet… I can!” he loudly objects, as Pansy and Hermione hoot loudly. “Stuff it – I’d rather be sexy than cute, anyway.”

“Harry’s cute _and_ sexy – you’re simply amazingly lucky that our Golden Girl happens to be your soul mate, you arrogant git.” Pansy affectionately punches Draco’s arm.

“Don’t I know it,” he fervently breathes, his eyes locking with Hermione’s whiskey-brown ones. “Granger thinks I’m cute, too… isn’t that right, _ma petite_?”.

“You have your moments, _mon coeur_ ,” Hermione allows, a Mona Lisa smile decorating her beautiful face.

“Ugh – no-no-no, none of that cooing doves crap, this is about me and _my_ crisis,” Pansy vigorously shakes her head, karate chopping the air between the couple. “Focus! I’m… almost ready – to take the next step with Harry, I mean.”

“’Almost ready’ isn’t the same as ‘ready’, Pans – and you should tell Harry exactly that. Maybe you should also consider that you’re both having stressful weeks; Potter’s probably not having a fun time at Azkaban, and you’ve just started counselling. Give yourselves as much time as it takes, you’ll both know when to move forward.” Draco pats Pansy’s hand once more. “I can assure you that Harry’s hopelessly smitten, if that’s what’s brought on this uncharacteristic indecision of yours. He’s putty in your manicured hands.”

“Uh– I wouldn’t say that…” Pansy dissents, pinkening from neck to brow.

“ _I_ would. Are you seeing Harry tonight?” Hermione bends forward ( _now in full lawyer mode_ , Draco observes with no small amusement). “Right – sit him down and tell him exactly what you’ve discussed with us. _He_ needs to hear it, and _you_ need to say it. Don’t wimp out, that’s beneath my badassed bestie. Anything else? No?”. Hermione taps her fingernails onto the wooden desktop, nodding in satisfaction at Pansy’s somewhat astounded capitulation.

“Yeah – I need another hug – from both of you. Come on, come on, bring it in,” Pansy orders, bumping Draco against the front of the table as Hermione happily flies in from his other side. Draco’s kidneys suffer an unfortunate blow as they grapple together in an apparent attempt to squeeze him into next year.

“ _Merde_! Easy – stop laughing, my vital organs being compressed isn’t funny – _aargh_ , no pinching, you wicked wenches…!” Draco shrieks helplessly as Hermione homes in on his ticklish armpits and goes to town.

“I think you found his ‘sweet’ spot, Pollyanna,” Pansy cackles, bussing a fond kiss on both of their cheeks. “I’ll leave you to it. Thanks, guys.”

“Lock the door behind you!” Draco has the presence of mind to holler, as Pansy’s indulgent laughter follows her from the office.

“Now… where were we, my naughty, sexy, mouthy little witch? Pinching? How rude,” Draco hunts his snickering girlfriend around her work desk.

“How many paddles of your delectable bottom do you think each pinch deserves?”

“One…?”

“And you call yourself an Arithmancy Professor?! Shocking.”

Sitting down on her office chair, Draco sweeps Hermione back into his lap; he boldly bunches her tweed skirt up her thighs, thoroughly delighted with her little moans of excited anticipation.

_Pansy was right – I’m a bloody lucky bastard._

He allows himself one more cocky grin before his greedy mouth fuses with her warm, panting lips.

“Draco – are you – are you sure the door’s locked?” Hermione manages to ask, between increasingly fevered smooches. She has clawed apart his shirt buttons without permission… _another infraction to add to the tally._

“Mmm-hmm… I heard it click. Be quiet, I want to try something new,” Draco commands, drinking deeply of her willing mouth before he dexterously flips her facedown on his lap. “Shhh… be a good girl, Granger. Tell me… are you willing to be spanked? I’ll stop right now, or any time you say so. Do you remember your safe word?”.

“Yes… and I consent,” Hermione breathily declares. “Must I be quiet? We could cast a Muffliato?” she hopefully suggests.

“No. You like the added risk of being overheard, don’t you?” Draco croons. His exploring hand stops as he discovers exactly which underwear his sexy girlfriend decided to don for the day.

“My, my… does this even qualify as a pair of knickers? Your arse is practically begging for my palm, you bawdy minx.” Draco roughly fondles the twin globes, exposed to his ardent grasp by the dark green cotton and lace thong. He runs an experimental finger beneath the skimpy garment, thrilled by what he finds at the juncture of her thighs.

“You’re soaking wet, sweetheart… have you been spanked before? Answer me,” Draco rumbles. His pulse is skipping and the crotch of his woollen trousers is uncomfortably tight, the situation intensifying every time Hermione wriggles and squirms.

“N-No.”

“N-No… what?” Draco admonishes, his digit delicately brushing the lips of her sex, occasionally dipping a fingertip into her wet channel.

“No… Draco?”

 _Spank!_ His hand immediately rubs a soothing circle over her left arse cheek, as Hermione yelps. _More in surprise than actual pain_ , he judges, chuckling at the cross look she tosses over her shoulder. His questing index finger slides inside her core, up to the second knuckle.

“Oooh… more, please… _my lord_?” Though her words are obedient, the undertone of sarcasm is pure Hermione. _Near enough_ , Draco decides, pushing deeper.

“I know you liked that – you’re even wetter now, Granger. Now, how many times did you pinch me? Be honest.”

“Four– five times, my lord.”

“And you tickled me…?”

“Three times, my lord. I’m sorry, I was just being playful–”

 _Spank! Spank! Spank!_ Draco alternates the slightly harder strikes on Hermione’s jiggling bum, loving her involuntary squeaks and moans. He glides two fingers inside her, keeping his rhythm slow and even… for now.

“I think it’s time we dispensed with this poor excuse for panties, don’t you?” Draco uses his right hand to push her skirt to its upper limit, deftly dragging down the thong until it is dangling from the ankle strap of one of her low-heeled Mary Janes.

“What a pretty little arse… I wish you could see the spectacular rosy bloom I’ve put on your bum, Granger. No, no, we’re not done yet; you’ve yet to pay for the pinches, sweetheart. Do you need to use your safe word?”.

“No… I like it. Finger me harder… my lord.” Hermione restively folds herself a little higher, lasciviously shimmying into a more pronounced jack-knife position on Draco’s thighs.

_Why… we’re barely five minutes in, and she’s already topping from the bottom. Gods, I adore this woman._

_Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank! **SPANK**!_ Draco puts a shade more heat into the final stroke, plunging three slickened fingers into Hermione’s warm, wet crease and rapidly shuttling in and out, curling and pressing at the end of the upstrokes. His right hand rubs soft circles on her blushed buttocks, occasionally firmly groping her pert flesh.

Hermione stifles her moans, kicking her legs as he feels her climax bearing down on his busy fingers. Draco can’t stop himself from nudging his clothed groin against her belly as she twists and gasps.

“Please… please… don’t stop… my lord,” she keens, her hands alternating between gripping his calf and the chair leg. Her once neatly-pinned bun is a wild shambles as her head thrashes in pleasure.

“I won’t – that’s it, that’s my good girl… my beautiful lioness… come for me, _ma petite_ ,” his hoarse, authoritative words tip her over the edge, her whole body seizing as she clamps down on his hand. Gentling his strokes, Draco hums soothing phrases of praise and encouragement.

“That’s it, take what you need… you’re such a clever witch, aren’t you… my brave, sexy darling… Was that good, my love?”.

“Ugnnnhhh… so good… Draco,” Hermione whispers, going completely lax in his secure hold. “But what… what about you? I want… I want you to feel good, too.”

“This is for you, Hermione. You need to recover, and I am going to take care of you.” Draco tenderly pulls up her green knickers, smoothing them into place before he tugs down her skirt. “Are you ready to sit up? I’m going to cuddle you until you feel capable of standing, alright?”.

Nodding slowly, Hermione lets Draco expertly manoeuvre her into position, her eyelids heavy as her head droops into his neck.

“When you’re ready, you’ll have some water, and we’ll see about having some lunch,” Draco tells her.

“Thank you, Draco… you take such good care of me… I love you so,” Hermione kisses his throat, gazing up at him with pure bliss wreathed across her flushed, pretty face.

“Thank you, Hermione. I love you, _ma petite_. I’ll always take good care of you, I promise.”

“I know you will.” Her eyes drift closed as she snuggles closer into his chest.

Draco rains soft kisses into her lush hair. _I take back all my whining about the Ministry being a crap workplace… it definitely has its benefits._

Leaning back into the chair, he lets a contented smile curl up his lips.

* * *

_Wednesday 25 March 2003: PM_

Harry briefly contemplates strapping his knuckles before whaling into the sand-stuffed old boxing bag swinging from the basement’s ceiling, before deciding to forego the precaution. _I need to feel my fists making contact with something. Anything. Better some shoddy old gym equipment than someone’s face._

He’d clattered straight down the stairs to the lowest level of Grimmauld Place as soon as he’d arrived home from another fraught day at Azkaban. _‘Fraught’ – more like ‘utterly fucking foul’, he grimly admits. Days like these make me question my decision to enter magical law enforcement… there’s always another predator just waiting to take the place of the ones we find and prosecute._

Stripping off his red robes, Harry flings them behind him, uncaring of where they land. He jerks off his black jumper, sending it flying, too. Glaring at the innocent dark blue vinyl bag (in truth, covered more in duct taped repairs than vinyl, now), he has no trouble envisioning Cormac McLaggen’s curly golden head superimposed upon it.

The events of the day cycle inexorably through his head as he begins to slam his bare hands into the heavy pugilistic device, making it sway with every vicious thump…

“Swallow, Mr McLaggen; there’s no point fighting this process,” Pritchard-Hawes had dispassionately informed the sullen prisoner strapped into the metal chair before them.

Harry had watched Cormac’s futile attempts to avoid the administration of the truth serum with a jaundiced eye, fervently wishing that the information gleaned today would add as much time as possible to McLaggen’s unavoidable conviction of decades of misery inside this bleak hellhole. _Call me a vengeful arsehole – but I cannot **wait** until karma comes for you, Cormac. You filthy, depraved, revolting excuse for a man._

“Right. We’ll begin our questioning shortly. Mr McLaggen, as you may be aware, any answers you give today will not be admissible at your trial, due to the proven fallibility of Veritaserum in a small number of cases; however, any creditable evidence collected as a result of your answers will be produced and accepted in court,” Leopold had intoned. “Mr Rowe, your presence here is conditional upon your silent observation; any attempt by you to upset these proceedings will result in your immediate ejection from the chamber. Do you understand?”.

“Yes.” Barrister Rowe had bitten off the word. “I am remaining to ensure my client’s rights are not violated, and I wish to state for the record that Mr McLaggen did not consent to this invasive procedure.” The tall, cadaverous-looking man hadn’t blinked once. His fish-pale eyes had glittered stonily in the austere, ruthlessly bright space.

“So noted.” Leopold had picked up the list of questions he and Harry had devised after yesterday’s meeting with Flint. “Tell us your full name, please; and any aliases or pseudonyms you have used,” he’d addressed the prisoner.

“Cormac Houkin McLaggen… _DarkDespoiler79_ … _FearAsmodeus_. That’s all you’ll get from me – your stupid fucking serum is useless,” McLaggen had spat, testing the magical bonds lashing him to the seat. He’d yowled in frustration when his angry efforts had failed utterly. Beads of sweat had rolled into his hairline and down his fair cheeks.

“The last two names: they are your internet profiles, is that correct?” Harry had coolly queried. _Of course this fool has to try to fight the serum, though I predict it will be in vain – he’s never studied Occlumency, as far as we’re aware._

A short pause, before the answer had been forced from Cormac’s thinned lips. “Yes.”

“Did you murder your uncle, Tiberius McLaggen?” Harry had gone straight for the jugular.

A longer pause. “Fucking… Flint… squealed… YES!” McLaggen had snarled. “That old cocksucker… had it coming… you don’t know…”

“What don’t I know, Cormac?”.

“Your… arse… from your… elbow… Potter. FUCK YOU!” Cormac had furiously screamed.

 _I should have known better than to ask such a broad question._ Harry had shaken off Leo as the older Auror had stepped forward, obviously poised to take over the interrogation.

“Sorry – I know, I’ll be specific. Cormac: why did you kill your uncle Tiberius?” Harry had rallied.

“We needed his money – for the roofie potion research – Flint was talking about cutting me out – fucker merrily forgot it was my idea – _I_ found Macnair, _I_ read the Manifesto, _I_ set up the Dark Web sites – not him! His stupid piddling winery was bleeding sodding Galleons, before I stepped in – it was _my_ plan, and we were so close… besides, Tiberius deserved to die, he would have anyway. Silly old codger, falling into his own bathtub. I delivered him a merciful death,” Cormac had bragged. “Hypothermia would’ve set in after a few more hours.”

Harry had caught Leo’s eye; clearly, Cormac’s aversion to the effects of the Veritaserum were no match for his stunningly monstrous ego.

“When and where did you find Walden Macnair, McLaggen?” Harry had asked.

Cormac had laughed unpleasantly. “Found the emaciated old turd hanging around his burned-down estate last year, living off rats and birds. I’d gone there for a lark; I’d been visiting dead Death Eaters’ properties, hoping to sniff out some relic to add to my collection. It’s never been hard for me to charm fools into giving me what I want, not with this face,” he’d twisted his head and assumed a disturbingly angelic expression. “I took him in, though he was fucked from the get-go – he’d been hit with some weird withering curse during the Battle of Hogwarts – he reckoned it was ancient Romany magic, not that I gave a shit. Anyone could see he was clinging to life by the skin of his teeth. I knew he’d be a brilliant source of information, so it served my purpose to shelter him. Plus, he promised me the Manifesto.”

“Where is Macnair now?” Leo had urged.

“Dead. Came home one day and there he was, reeking up my favourite armchair – I had to chuck it out, bodily fluids are a bitch to remove once the sphincters have loosened,” Cormac had griped. “You can’t pin that death on me – drag up his worm-riddled corpse if you must, I tipped him down an old well at the hunting lodge.”

 _Charming. I can’t believe Cormac was sorted into Gryffindor – was he_ always _this callous, and evil?_ The next improvised question had burst from Harry’s lips.

“Why did you start this scheme, Cormac? Why did you want to drug, abduct, rape and imprison women?”.

“BECAUSE THE WORLD OWES ME EVERYTHING, POTTER! Why the fuck not? I suffered through years of that ‘Pride of Lions’ do-gooder bullshit – I took my licks at Hogwarts during Seventh Year, when you were off swanning about with your retarded ginger sidekick and that uppity Mudblood slut!” McLaggen had ranted.

“The Great Harry Potter, making up a bunch of tripe about Horcruxes, just to save your chickenshit skin from Lord Voldemort a little longer… _you disgust me_. I fought in the wretched Battle too – no one offered _me_ a free ride – no one stood _me_ on a podium, slung a medal around _my_ neck, and blathered on about _my_ bravery and selflessness – meanwhile, there you were at every fucking turn, being fawned over and treated like some kind of fucking god – dipping your wick into all kinds of free pussy and going home to Ginny Weasley – you deserved none of it, you wanker.” Cormac had finally concluded his rant, breathing heavily, with spittle flecking his mouth and chin.

“I started studying them – Voldemort, and the Death Eaters – and I realized that they had the right idea. Why should the undeserving meek inherit the earth? Why shouldn’t the powerful and the gifted take what is rightfully theirs? Why shouldn’t I take what I wanted? I tried being ‘good’ – it’s all just a construct, Potter. Morality always serves someone else’s interests, when you look at it closely enough,” Cormac had shrugged. “Why be a sheep when the wolves have all the fun? I met Marcus at one of those interminable alumni events and we realized we shared similar… philosophies.”

His blue eyes had darkened as he’d hissed, “But don’t listen to a fucking word that prick Flint says – he was mostly in it for the gold, I see that now. _He_ was the one who passed on the lists of similarly-minded gentlemen, and _he_ recruited that dipshit Bones – had I known the daft porky prick was going to botch up that raid on Nott’s mansion so badly, I never would have bothered with him. Fuck, I should have never taken on a partner – I could have had two pregnant bitches in my cellar by now, had Flint not tried to hog Hermione all for himself,” he’d grumbled.

“Don’t you dare speak her name,” Harry had growled. “You’re damned fortunate those brilliant witches didn’t kill you, Cormac – you can thank their ‘morality’ for sparing your miserable, ruined life.”

“Heh – I _knew_ you were screwing Granger, back in the day – aww, and now you have to share her with Lord Drunky! Tch, tch… never mind, I’ve heard you’re getting it on with my other sweetheart – how is my _Little Flower_ , Potter? Did you enjoy her pretty little pictures?” Cormac’s leering taunt had resulted in Harry’s hands automatically rising to choke the blond wizard’s worthless neck; Leo had stepped in before he’d made contact, firmly pushing Harry to stand in the far back corner.

“I’ll take it from here, Auror Potter.” As an aside to Harry, he’d murmured, “ _Settle down_ – you assured me you could handle this. Leave the room if you find you can’t; I will ban you from any further involvement with this case if you make one more irregular move, Harry.”

“I apologize. I’ll remove myself if I can’t take it anymore, sir,” Harry had stiffly replied. “Please. I need to be here.”

Giving a tiny nod, Leo had directed Cormac to answer the necessary questions about how Bones had sold Pansy’s DMLE file to the pair of villains.

The phrases he’d heard coming from McLaggen’s odious mouth now thud into Harry’s brain, as his enraged fists wildly attack the erratically swinging boxing bag.

 _Thump_.

“Bones is a moronic arsehole, but he struck gold with Parkinson’s file – oh, didn’t Marcus and I enjoy on-selling those glorious images! She’s a huge hit on the Dark Web, you know–”

 _THUMP_.

“– it’s a shame I never got the chance to photograph the Pureblood slut in my dungeon – I had a lot of very _specific_ requests from our subscribers, you understand – that fucking Mudblood slag just got lucky when she headbutted me – clearly Flint was lying about the improved effects of the potion, the dumb shithead – there’s no way she would’ve gotten the jump on me, otherwise– ”

_THUMP. THUMP._

“Tell me, Harry – is Pansy as good in the sack as I’d dreamed? I bet she lets you do _anything_ and _everything_ to her – I bet she’s gagging for it – such a good, obedient little bitch – her granddaddy trained her well–”

**_THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP!!!!_ **

Harry pummels the bag until multiple fresh rips start spilling pale sand onto the dingy stone floor, unaware that his own skin has split and droplets of rich crimson blood are spattering his face and clothing. Screaming out his rage and pain, he stops only when the depleted bag finally tears in half, the rest of the sand coating his feet and tripping his rapidly moving feet. Tumbling onto the floor, Harry buries his aching head in his scarlet-coated hands, letting loose his deep sobs.

 _My darling Pansy… I need to be strong for her, somehow. I’m dreading having to tell her of all this… but I promised to be honest, and open. I wish I could heal her pain… but I know I can’t. This is all so fucked._ Harry wraps his arms around his middle, staring dully at the mess he’s made of the basement gym.

He is unsure of how much time has passed when he hears a strident _meow_. Boadicea further alerts of her presence as she sinks her small claws into his forearms, before banging her tiny black head against his down bent forehead.

“ _Rowrllll_?”

“Hey, Boadie. What are you doing down here, sweetie? Kreacher’ll pitch a fit if he thinks you’re missing,” Harry carefully gathers the inquisitive kitten into his lap, taking care not to smear blood and sand on her silky jet fur.

“Little Boadie practises the extermination of the rats Master Malfoy claims infest the estate,” Kreacher drolly announces, stepping into the room.

Expecting the fastidious elf to sniff disparagingly about the mess Harry has created, he is shocked into speechlessness when Kreacher enquires, “Does Master Potter wish to discuss his troubles? Kreacher advises Mistress Pansy is due to arrive for supper in twenty minutes.” The ancient sprite adroitly passes Harry a bottle of cold water. “Drink.”

 _Is this one of those alternate realities Hermione used to theorize about? Is Kreacher ill?_ Harry silently flips the lid off the bottle, slowly sipping water as he scrutinizes his inherited manservant.

 _He doesn’t look sick; if anything, he appears to be moving more freely than he has in years._ A thought strikes. “Kreacher… have you consulted a Healer, for your… aches and pains? Your knuckles – the swelling has gone down,” Harry diffidently asks.

“At the Granger-Malfoy bruncheon, Little Miss Tavi notices Kreacher’s… inflexibilities; she speaks candidly of her cerebral palsy,” Kreacher says, quietly but clearly. “Little Miss Tavi asks Kreacher why he has not sought medical intervention; she wistfully confides her physical limitations are treatable, though not curable. Kreacher is… ashamed of his past intractability, and seeks assistance with his arthritis.”

 _Yep. I’ve definitely ended up in a parallel universe, somehow._ “Good… that’s really good,” he lamely responds. “Tavi… she’s a marvel of a kid, that one.”

“Indeed. Kreacher also informs Master Potter to expect receipt of Kreacher’s anti-inflammatory potion bills,” a sly smile creeps across Kreacher’s angular face.

A dry laugh huffs from Harry’s lips. “Well played.”

“Master Potter should bathe,” Kreacher does sniff, this time, as his eyes rake across Harry’s bloodied, dirtied form. “Mistress Pansy deserves to dine with a clean, respectably attired wizard.”

“She deserves better than me, Kreacher. I– I’ve let her down. The system’s grossly betrayed her– and I’m part of it– I’m sick to my stomach,” Harry confesses, in a surprised rush. “I’m torn between my job, and my burning need for vengeance. Justice… I’m afraid that it won’t be enough, when all’s said and done.”

“Master Potter. You will do your best. For you, and Mistress Pansy. Every day, you will choose the right thing to do.” Kreacher’s words are low and tinged with profound sadness. “For centuries, we house elves have no choice. We have to find a way to live with the unspeakable sins we are forced to keep silent… hidden… loyalty to family trumped all else. Sometimes, we find a way to subvert the strictures; most often, we do not. Count yourself blessed to enjoy free will, and the power to choose your actions. Choose wisely.”

Kreacher twice clicks his tongue, causing Boadie to unfurl her purring little body and stroll across to his waiting hands. Picking up his beloved kitty, Kreacher jabs Harry with the last word, before he neatly spins on his booted heel.

“Do shower, Master Potter – you stink.”

* * *

**Italian translation:**

_la mia bellissima aquila –_ my beautiful eagle.

**Geordie translation:**

a geet, canny bugger for givvin the wee hoonds a gud yarkin’ – a great, marvellous fellow for giving the young ratbags a good thrashing.


	78. Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to @allegedgeek for inspiring the scene detailing Harry's conflict (about Cormac's bitterness over the lack of appreciation shown to many in the Wizarding world, after the War). You really helped to coalesce my approach here.
> 
> Thank you to @padore for pointing out that Harry too might benefit from specialized therapy. 
> 
> As ever, great thanks to @Recoveringjaddict5 for being my awesome beta reader. Extra kudos for your prompt about Mac needing to be weapons~searched daily 😁.  
>    
> Many, many thanks to everyone reading this.  
> The next chapter (79) will skip straight to Friday's dinner party at Malfoy Manor, aka Lucy Meets Barney.  
> Best wishes for everyone's continued health and happiness.  
> Much love from VJ 🧡😊🧡

__

_Wednesday 25 March 2003: PM_

“Thank you, Kreacher. This looks utterly scrumptious.” Pansy’s stomach makes a soft rumble, reminding her that it’s been some time since she gobbled down a loveless ham sandwich, a handful of almonds, and half a punnet of raspberries for lunch, at the boutique today. She smiles at the elderly elf as he stands beside the small dining table.

“Kreacher thanks Mistress Pansy; he tries a new recipe. Oven-baked chicken with harissa, tomatoes, olives, and crushed new potatoes. Master Potter does enjoy the humble potato, in its many varieties and incarnations,” the elf deadpans. “Kreacher learns to try everything once before flatly rejecting it evermore.”

_Who knew the dour manikin had such a dry sense of humour?_ Pansy wonders. Evidently not Harry, who is staring at Kreacher as though he’s sprouted wings overnight.

“Master Potter and Mistress Pansy will summon Kreacher when ready for the dessert course,” he bows once, careful not to disturb the black kitten sleeping in the ubiquitous sling attached to Kreacher’s concave chest. The snap-crackle of his Disapparation quickly fades.

Smoothing her linen napkin over her lap, Pansy tries to calm her nerves about the evening ahead. _Like Hermione and Draco said, communication is key. I’ll find the right time to tell Harry about my qualms, and go from there._ She watches him covertly as he picks up the bottle of _Côtes du Roussillon_ red wine and pours them both a glass.

“Thank you. To house elves,” Pansy toasts, taking a small sip of the light, exotic varietal.

Harry clears his throat after setting down his wine glass. “Pansy? Kreacher’s pretty much your Official Number One Fan now, you know. I’ve never seen him be so warm before – well, comparatively, you should have met him when I first inherited this house. You, Boadie, and Tavi – he’s really making an effort.”

“Ohhh… I’m rather flattered,” Pansy replies. “Do you truly think so? Isn’t he just doing his job?”.

Harry chuckles. “He didn’t make chicken with harissa and boiled new potatoes for _me_ , Pansy. He’s determined to impress you, love.”

_What do I say to that?_ Pansy instead busies herself with slicing and sampling her aromatic dinner. As anticipated, it is delicious… spicy and rich, without being too heavy.

“This is lovely, Harry,” she comments, after happily chowing through a goodly portion of her meal. “I think you’re reading too much into Kreacher’s behaviour – but if he keeps feeding me up like this, I might never leave!”. She hurriedly stuffs another forkful of potatoes into her mouth, wishing the impulsive words unsaid as an indecipherable (albeit intense) expression washes across Harry’s handsome face.

“How– how was your day, Harry?”.

“Shit,” Harry brusquely replies, laying down his cutlery. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so crude, Pansy. We used the Veritaserum on Bones and McLaggen – it was harrowing,” he rasps, looking up from beneath his messy black mop. His beautiful jade eyes are sad and strained.

“Harry – you can tell me… if you want,” Pansy offers, reaching across the table to softly stroke his forearm.

“Wait – what have you done to your hands? Did you punch Bones again?”. She grips his fingers as he tries to pull away, clucking worriedly at the multitude of scrapes and raw bruises.

“No, no; though I might have given serious thought to strangling Cormac, at one point,” Harry ruefully confesses. “Leo made me stand in the naughty corner, I only observed from then on. My hands got a tad banged up when I– er– I punched up the boxing bag in the home gym. Downstairs. In the basement. Kreacher already sprayed something antiseptic on them, it’s fine.” He shivers a little as she lovingly caresses each finger in turn, careful not to abrade the cuts and swelling. “That feels nice, love.”

“Oh, Harry – your poor hands, you’ve really hammered them. Why didn’t you use a healing spell?” Pansy chides, her voice thready as she fights back sympathetic tears. “I’ll fix them now.”

“Pansy, it’s OK – please, eat your dinner, or we’ll both risk Kreacher’s wrath,” Harry jests. “Little Tavi inspired him to consult a Healer about his rheumatoid arthritis, can you believe it? And he let me pet Boadie without first signing an indemnity agreement,” he smiles.

“You can try to change the subject all you like, but I’m not having it.” Pansy keeps hold of Harry’s battered hands. “Harry, you’re under a lot of strain… I’m worried about you. Please, will you talk with me?” she implores.

“I– I don’t want to add to your stressors, Pansy. I’ll be alright.” Harry unnecessarily adjusts his rounded spectacles. “Really.”

“This relationship… it can’t be a one-way street, Harry. We have to take turns to support each other, not just you propping up me all the time – well, me and the rest of the world. I might be relatively new to this boyfriend-girlfriend caper, but I do know that much. You can trust me… and you can depend on me. I would like to know what’s happening, with the roofie case. Depending on how comfortable you are with discussing it, of course.” Pansy exhales deeply after her impassioned little speech.

She does her level best to ignore how damned adorable Harry looks, peering abashedly at her through his tousled dark fringe.

“You’re right, love. I’m sorry; I do trust you, of course I do. I realize that sometimes I… bottle up my feelings, and take on a bit too much… I’ll do better.” He nods determinedly, roughly swiping his thick black hair from his brow. “I promise.”

Smiling tremulously, an idea sparks in Pansy’s head. “Harry, after dinner… may I give you a back massage? I’d like to speak with you first, though.” Pansy withdraws her hand, nervously spearing a kalamata olive as she awaits his reaction. _Have I pushed too hard?_

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, love! But… I’d really like that, Pansy,” Harry grins. “I have a firm policy of never turning down an offer of a back rub from a beautiful witch – uh, not that I’ve had many – OK, this is the first offer, and probably the last,” Harry ruefully comes clean, as Pansy chuckles at his (charmingly awkward) attempt at flirtatiousness. “Go on, mock a bumbling wizard’s smooth moves, why don’t you?”. His face sobers as he concludes, “We can talk now; are you alright? I’m sorry, I’ve had my head up my own– I mean, I’m listening.” Harry bolts down half his wine in one hit.

“It’s not a big thing… well, I don’t think it is,” Pansy vacillates, before giving herself a mental slap. “Last night, when we were… making out– kissing, and– you know, petting– I mean, when we were getting hot and heavy on my snug… I greatly enjoyed it, and I’m very attracted to you, Harry,” she babbles. “But I’m not quite ready to… go much further, I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to take us to the next level – I do! – but I need more time. I’m still working through my reactions to being ‘outed’ at the Gala, and everything that transpired afterwards. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

Heaving out a deep, ragged exhale, Pansy flumps back against her chair, her posture relaxing as she finally divulges her reservations.

“Love, have I been pressuring you? Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry – _putain de merde!_ I’ve been a thoughtless fool–” Harry clenches his teeth and yanks at his hair with both hands.

“Harry! Stop – you’ve not pressured me in the slightest, I was an eager and full participant in everything we’ve done together.” Pansy leaps from her seat, rushing round the table to detach Harry’s fingers from his much-abused sable crop. “It’s a wonder you still have any hair, the way you savage it,” she cradles his head to sweetly kiss his drawn-down mouth, before plopping into his lap.

“Let me take care of you, starting with these,” Pansy lifts Harry’s abused fingers to her lips, identifying and tenderly kissing each bruise, abrasion, and cut, in turn. “My boyfriend’s a bit of a ninny sometimes, have I told you that? He thinks he has to carry the whole weight of his nearest and dearest’s troubles… he needs to learn that every one of them is willing – and happy – to take turns, and can help bear his burdens, too.” Sliding her holly wood wand from her skirt pocket, Pansy whispers “Episkey”, concentrating fiercely until Harry’s wounds are healed down to nothing more than faint bruising.

Harry gazes at her raptly, his eyes sheeny and bright. “You’re amazing, you know that? Your idiotic boyfriend doesn’t sound worthy of you, Pansy Parkinson. Are you sure you want to stick with him?”.

“There’s no one else I’d rather be with… and nowhere else I’d rather be,” Pansy croaks the last phrase, guiding his palms to cup her cheeks. “Harry, don’t you dare doubt that – don’t you dare doubt how happy I am, with you. I’m not asking you to fix my problems; I just need you to listen, and to be here for me.”

She pauses, gulping down her overspilling emotion. “I’m going to act in my Confirmed Girlfriend Capacity to respectfully suggest that you might benefit from speaking to a professional, Harry. I’m now thoroughly qualified to advise you on that, seeing on how I spent fifty-five minutes blabbing, braying and crying on a therapist’s couch just yesterday,” she grins.

“I don’t know… it always feels– invasive… alright, alright, I know you’re going to call me out for being a hypocrite,” Harry allows. “I’ll make an appointment to see the Auror Division’s headshrinker– I mean, _counsellor_ , by the end of the week. Thanks, love.” His broad fingers caress her sensitive skin, his thumbs moving down to stroke her neck.

“You’re welcome, duckie.” Pansy giggles at Harry’s flabbergasted reaction.

“”Duckie’? Of all the pet names you can pick from… you go with ‘duckie’?” he mock-protests, kissing the tilted tip of her nose.

“Well, you’re fluffy, and adorable, and your hair’s quite downy, Harry,” Pansy builds her case.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that ‘duck’ or ‘duckie’ is thought to have derived from the word ‘Duke’, not because of ducklings… Merlin, I guess I retained more of Hermione’s obscure lectures than I realized,” Harry grumbles. “What’s a cross between an encyclopedia, a dictionary, and a thesaurus called?”

“Hermione Granger!” they laughingly answer in unison.

Pansy links her arms around Harry’s neck. “What would you say to skipping dessert, and moving this little party to your bedroom? I’m rather keen to strip off your shirt… to rub your back, I mean.” She impishly bats her lashes. “It’s wholly therapeutic, not sexual; I promise.” _Not tonight, anyway_ , she amends in her head. _But soon…_

By way of reply to her suggestion, Harry slides his hands onto her hips, bunching the black silk beneath his hands. “Close your eyes, love.”

He Disapparates them straight to his bedroom, keeping her upright as they land upon his bed.

“Pansy, you may do with me whatever you like; with one condition,” he offers, smiling at her with undisguised affection and trust.

“What’s that?”.

“You be the one to explain to Kreacher why we turned down the butterscotch mousse dessert he fussed over half the afternoon – I’ll be in for a right scolding, otherwise,” Harry grins.

“Deal.”

* * *

“Granger, will you stop whizzing about the room for five seconds, please? Come sit in my lap and tell me what’s happening in that busy, brilliant brain of yours.” Draco invitingly widens his legs and pats the space between his thighs. His platinum head rests against the padded headboard as he tracks her flurried movements with his glittering grey eyes.

“Uh, no… your _lap_ has distracted me more than enough for one day, Malfoy,” Hermione tuts, scribbling down another item on her list. “I won’t be much longer.”

_Best not to look back at him – he’s such a seductive temptation. I’m still behind on all my catch-up files, and I truly don’t want to disappoint Marilda by leaving my paperwork unfinished. Thank goodness I already negotiated a change of bodyguard tomorrow; Mac jumped at the chance to come to the Ministry with me, one last time._

“You said that five minutes ago,” Draco whines. “You weren’t complaining about my lap when you were stretched over it… with your delectable arse bared to my spanking hand, _ma petite_.” His petulant expression is replaced by a raunchy leer. “ _Je veux faire des cochonneries avec toi… beaucoup plus de choses sales avec toi._ ”

Hermione decides to fight fire with fire. “Oh, _oui_... _seulement la prochaine fois, je serai celui qui fesse ton beau cul, mon amour._ ” She revels in his enlarged pupils and restless shift against the banked pillows. “You like that idea, don’t you? Now cease your attempts to lure me to the bed, I’ve things to do.”

“Interminable lists to write and re-write, it seems. Are you noting down an itemized account of everything you love about me? Carry on,” Draco makes her laugh with his exaggerated, pompous wave. “No wonder it’s taking you an eon to finish.”

“I’m writing down everything I want to import here from my apartment, and figuring out what Ginny and Ron will need to bring,” Hermione reveals. “Ginny owled me this afternoon; they’re delighted with the idea of sub-letting, and will be moving in on Saturday evening. She has a Holyhead Harpies all-day practice session, else they’d come sooner. You don’t have to be there, Draco; I’m well aware of your antipathy towards Ron, and I’d sooner avoid a blow-up,” Hermione heads off his Ron-based gripe before he can voice it.

“Of course I’ll be there, Hermione; I’m your boyfriend, and I fully intend to assist you with packing your things,” Draco sullenly vows. “I won’t start any trouble with Weasley, provided he stays out of my way. My unchecked jealousy is a thing of the past,” he loftily states.

“Really? Is that why you terrorized poor Joseph McGrath, during your Hogwarts interview?” Hermione scoffs. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out how rudely (and ridiculously) you’d behaved? Shame on you, Draco: you owe that lovely boy an apology.”

“That rat fink Macdolas snitched on me, didn’t he?! He can talk – you should have seen him, trying to trip Head Boy Whatshisname when he took them both downstairs,” Draco snipes, grumpily folding his arms.

“Ruibby told me, actually. She was quite taken with Joseph, and she’s already put a flea in Mac’s ear for his peevish display.” Hermione pauses in her list-making to eye her cranky beau. “I’m surprised Minerva didn’t deduct twenty points from Slytherin for your insolence.”

“Oh, McGonagall chipped me for it, never fear. Fine, fine – I’ll say sorry to McGrab once we’re moved into our quarters on Sunday, sweetheart. Gods… that’s just a handful of days away,” Draco muses. He smiles guilelessly; the sheer beauty of his comely features and relaxed, joyful demeanour makes Hermione’s heart quiver.

“Did you ever imagine you and I would be living together – _working_ together – at Hogwarts, Hermione? Not even in my craziest dreams – and I’ve had more than a few, starring you, of course – did I ever allow myself to envision such an incredible future.” He fiddles with his sterling silver cufflinks, unclipping them before nervily dancing them across the backs of his hand like Jacks.

“No, I didn’t… I never conceived of being so astoundingly happy, and fulfilled, as I am with you, Draco.” Laying down her parchment and pen, Hermione gladly crawls up onto the big bed. She kneels beside him as she says, “Some nights, I wake up in your arms, and stay awake for five or ten wonderful minutes… just to soak up how blessed I feel, with you. Thank you, Draco.”

The jiggling cufflinks are abandoned to the floor as Draco scoops her into his arms and hugs her tightly, peppering smacking kisses all over her smiling face. “I’m the one who’s blessed, Hermione… my dearest love… my darling… my sweet little lioness.” He briefly raises his head to boast, “I lured you into my clutches after all, didn’t I? _Muahahaha_!”

“Being loved by you is no hardship, Draco. I _am_ going to finish my list though.” Hermione decides it’s time to voice a niggling fear. “Do you think we’re moving too fast? Have we allowed ourselves enough time to get everything done, this weekend? I mean, we have to survive dinner with both sets of parents on Friday evening; then on Saturday, we’ve your Quidditch game, and I’ll have to cherry-pick the rest of my belongings from the flat, plus sort out what we need to take to Hogwarts… Minerva said our chambers will be furnished, but we can swap out our own things once we’ve settled in a bit… and what about Mac and Ruibby? I’m worried about how they’ll cope in a strange environment, plus they’ll be properly living together for the first time–”

“They’ll be perfectly fine, sweetheart – Macdolas’s inexplicable charm and Ruibby’s tenacious intelligence will see them through just about anything,” Draco steadily assures. “Though I did warn McGonagall of Macdolas’s ferocious tendencies and obsession with sharp weapons; she’s going to have a quiet word with him about the school’s own extensive safeguards and well-protected boundaries… and perhaps run a few metal detection spells on the rascal every morning,” he snickers.

He curves his right arm around her shoulders, gently stroking her unbound hair. “You’re my little worrywart, aren’t you? Don’t fret about Friday’s dinner, our mothers are a formidable pairing and neither of our fathers will dare to cross them. I don’t expect you to come to the Quidditch match, it’s just a friendly get-together with our friends and your workmates.’

“Do _you_ feel things are moving too quickly, Hermione? We can always renegotiate for more time. If– if you’d rather have your own quarters at Hogwarts, we can do that too… whatever works best for you, love,” Draco’s smile is pained as he makes the tentative offer.

“No! Please, I never meant to imply that I feel rushed about us– believe me, I’m ecstatic with how our relationship is progressing.” Hermione shakes her chestnut curls in vigorous negation. “I can’t wait for us to live together at Hogwarts, Draco. I want to make sure you’re OK, too… given how structured your life was before I bumbled into it, I’m concerned that too many sudden changes of lifestyle and profession might be somewhat… triggering.”

Draco’s cloud-grey eyes express his relief at her explanation. He drifts his thumb across her cheek, resting it against her parted mouth as he replies, “Knowing that you care about me like that… well, it’s nothing short of miraculous. Thank you, Hermione. I will admit to some anxiety about our life changes, but I’m going to ensure that I attend regular AA meetings, possibly at night, or on the weekends. Ewan’s just a telephone call away, too. I intend to buy a mobile phone tomorrow, since you’ve banished me from your office for the day,” he teases.

“You’ve only yourself to blame for that, Malfoy – you’re too sexy and handsome for your own good, and well you know it,” Hermione kisses his pale thumb. “Oh, and I’m definitely going to watch your Quidditch game… that’s going to be a highlight of my weekend, trust me,” she mutters the last to herself. “Let me up, please; I have to get that list sorted.”

“Alright, Miss Bossy Britches. But I demand a kiss first,” he puckers his mouth into a parody of a model’s pout and coyly flutters his dark blonde eyelashes. “Hurry up, your ‘homework’ won’t ever be finished, otherwise.”

Laying her hands flat on his chest, Hermione takes her own sweet time, choosing to first caress his eyebrows with her closed mouth. She savours the tiny sighs he releases as she kisses the outer corners of his shuttered eyes, before gliding along his cheekbones. Finally she touches her lips to his… flirty little passes of her tongue tip that swiftly evolve into full-blown passion.

Pushing Draco back against the heaped pillows and bedhead, Hermione enthusiastically dips and swirls her tongue into his groaning mouth, loving his tangy taste and eager responsiveness. She doesn’t cease her sensual onslaught until they are both gasping for breath.

“Sod that ruddy list, Granger,” Draco tries to recapture her kiss-swollen lips, growling as she pulls away her head.

“Stop, stop – I’ve paid my dues. There’s a reason I always beat you for top marks, Malfoy: I stayed focused, and avoided distraction as much as possible. You, sirrah, are the greatest threat to my committed concentration, and I won’t be swayed,” Hermione proclaims. She immediately makes a mockery of her proud speech as she dives back in for a last snog. _I can’t help it – just look at the man… **my** man._

“What’s that you were saying, Granger? Oh yes: you won’t be influenced or side-tracked from your goals,” Draco gloats, once she actually succeeds in distancing herself from the sexy devil by hastily clambering off the bed and out of reach of his strong arms and firm lips. “You didn’t always beat me for the top spot in class, you know. I bet your secret ardent attraction to me sabotaged many of your study sessions, anyway.”

The smugness in his voice makes Hermione want to hit him with a horn-growing hex. “Pfft. _Hardly_. To both your claims. You wish, Malfoy,” she flouts, fully reverting back to childishness by derisively blowing a raspberry back in his direction.

Their amused gazes clash; a heartbeat elapses before they simultaneously burst into laughter.

“By Salazar, you’re a funny one, Hermione. I wish we– well, _I_ – hadn’t wasted our school years being a stuck-up little bastard to you,” Draco wistfully says.

“Never mind all that; we can make it up to each other in– ” Hermione checks her wristwatch – “one hundred and eight hours, and a handful of seconds. Look out Hogwarts, here we come!” she beams.

Grinning euphorically back at her, Draco relaxes his head back against the top pillow, humming quietly.

“Oh, _ma petite_ … I cannot wait.”

* * *

_It’s just a massage,_ Harry sternly tells himself (and his far too-invested nether regions). _Remember what Pansy said – it’s not sexual, it’s therapeutic. Don’t embarrass yourself, man. She barely touched you when she removed your glasses, unbuttoned your shirt, and helped you out of your trousers, and you’re already more riled up than a hungry Hungarian Horntail after a lean winter._

Hurriedly flopping onto his belly on the end of the bed, Harry’s arms jerk awkwardly by his sides _. Should I leave them there? Cross them under my head?_ He opts for a posture somewhere in between, leaving his splayed hands folded by his shoulders. _I probably look like a lizard, poised to scurry across the floor._

“You don’t seem comfortable, Harry. Choose the pose you feel most natural with, OK? I’ll just grab some moisturiser, it works almost as well as massage oil.” Pansy patters out of the bedroom; Harry assumes she is headed for the bathroom.

_Do I even own moisturiser? Oh yeah – there’s that stuff Hermione gave me a few Christmases ago. Some kind of crap with shea butter and jojoba oil… and what else was she going on and on about, allegedly to offset razor burn? Collegial oats? Whatever._ Harry is about to sing out to Pansy to ask if she needs help finding the large jar when she returns, the lotion clutched in her hand.

“Harry James Potter – have you even opened this? I had to rip off one of those shiny adhesive Muggle gift bows, for heaven’s sake,” Pansy chastises. “You should take better care of your skin – you _will_ take better care of your skin, starting right now. Sit back up, I’m going to rub this into your face, then I’ll massage your back.” She clicks her tongue impatiently as Harry merely blinks back at her. “What’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing.” Harry snatches at a nearby pillow, wedging it in front of his legs before he obeys _. Godric’s balding ballocks – if I’m this het up at the thought of Pansy’s beautiful hands on my skin, how am I going to survive the actual massage?_ He gulps, closing his eyes as he turns to face her.

“Relax, duckie.” He hears Pansy unscrewing the lid and peeling off the sanitary plastic barrier. She strokes the first daub of cool cream over his brow; Harry’s head automatically drops in pleasure, tingles grazing up and down his spine.

“There… that feels good, hmm?” Pansy soothes. “Will you tell me what happened today, please? Just the broad outline. I’m listening, Harry,” she continues smoothing the lightly-fragranced lotion over his cheeks, diligently working it into his beard scruff before gliding down his neck, and behind his ears.

_Holy cannoli – is it possible to die from sensory overload?_ Harry wonders, unable to process Pansy’s question for a few moments. _She’s so gentle with me…_

“We gave Cormac the Veritaserum; he basically hanged himself, Pansy. He was absolutely incensed by Marcus’s ‘betrayal’, and wasted no time naming names and telling us where to find Flint’s list of contacts and all the research information about the roofie potion’s development and funding. We expect to make a series of international arrests in the next few days,” Harry quietly replies. “It was… disturbing, the way he ranted. He truly believes himself entitled, and hard done-by.”

“The worst of it is – well, I know that Cormac is irredeemably evil, and cruel. There’s nothing – nothing! – that could ever justify or excuse his actions, and their disgusting plot.” Harry sucks in a breath, momentarily opening his eyes to sombrely look into Pansy’s jasper-green depths.

“The thing is… I felt a tiny shred of pity for him. I think– I think his uncle might have abused him, when he was a kid. And when he talked about his bitterness at not receiving recognition after the War… he had a point, though his viewpoint is so darkly twisted. I’m sorry, this is too much,” Harry regrets his candour as Pansy’s face grows markedly dispirited.

“No – it’s alright, love. It makes me sad… the damned cycle of abuse, it keeps creating more victims, who in turn become predators,” she responds in a subdued voice, her hands stilling against his jaw. “I know not all abusers are themselves abused; but many are, aren’t they?” she asks rhetorically, expelling a long sigh.

“Harry – you can’t blame yourself for the adulation and fame that people forced upon you, after you defeated Voldemort, and the dust had settled. You never asked for it, and I know you never wanted any special attention or consideration,” she insists.

“No, I didn’t – but that’s the thing, Pansy, I didn’t beat Voldemort on my own. Everyone defeated him – everyone who refused to be cowed, everyone who risked their lives and families to stand up to his wicked, maniacal reign of terror – _everyone_ deserves to be acknowledged. I hate that we – me and Hermione and Ron – somehow became these ludicrous ‘heroes’. Knowing that the lack of appreciation shown to Cormac contributed to setting him on his path of vicious crime and horror… it’s awful.” Harry shudders, grateful for Pansy’s touch to help ground him from his despair.

“I know – I understand – but Harry, that’s human nature, to single out the few from the many. Creating and celebrating public figureheads who represent goodness and grace helped people to heal, especially after the trauma we all went through,” Pansy nods emphatically, refusing to let him drop his gaze.

“It’s not fair – and it’s not true, this idea that any of us were somehow special, or without sin, or that we weren’t scared shitless most of the time,” Harry chokes out. “So many times, I wanted to flee– I dreamed of running away, just finding some tiny, impossible corner of the world where no one knew me, or my tragic history. Some hero I am.”

“Harry. You were incredibly brave, and selfless, and strong – and not just because of what you did, but because you stayed. Don’t you see? You’re not a saint, but you chose to stay, and fight, and help others. That’s what makes you special – that’s what makes you a hero.” Pansy trails her index fingers from his rigid jawline, winding them around his ears, before mildly tugging on his lobes. “I hear what you’re saying – but Cormac and Marcus made their choices, too. You’re not responsible for their decisions to commit evil crimes. They are.”

Sagging a little, Harry closes his eyes against the surge of tears Pansy’s kind words engender. She finishes caressing the fancy lotion into his facial skin in silence, every slide of her hands bringing a fresh wave of joy.

“Lie down, Harry. Let me lo– let me look after you.” Pansy guides him to lie back on his stomach, her hand upon his right shoulder as he docilely obeys.

A few salty droplets leak from his eyes as he tucks his head onto the shielding pillow, leaving his arms loose against his bare ribs. Expecting to suffer some vulnerability, Harry is surprised at how... contented he feels.

“I’m just going to tie back my hair, lest it tickle you when I bend over,” Pansy elucidates.

“I don’t mind, I love your hair,” Harry murmurs. “So silky, and soft… so beautiful. Like you.”

“Says the man who claimed he lacked romantic words,” Pansy husks a laugh. “Please tell me if the pressure of my hands is too hard, or not hard enough, OK?”.

He nods his assent. “Pansy? When did you learn massage?” Harry bites his lip as her moisturized hands press into the base of his spine, travelling in wide parallel arcs up to his neck. _Sweet Merlin, that feels spectacular._

“I take weekend courses in Muggle things that interest me,” Pansy surprisingly reveals. “Just the last couple of years though, I was kept busy building up my companies, before then. Besides practising on our classmates, you’re the first person I’ve massaged, Harry.” She tsks unhappily before he can express his gratitude.

“Harry, your neck is as stiff as a board! I’m shocked you can move your head at all, honestly.” Moving to the other side of the bed, she increases her skilled manipulations of his tight muscles. “Close your eyes, and take nice even breaths. That’s the way,” Pansy encourages.

Doing as he’s bid, Harry relishes the warmth and release her busy fingers are creating. Though her touch is incontrovertibly arousing, the sensation of being lovingly touched and expertly cared for supersedes his desire. His respiration hitches a few times as the sheer delight of the experience overwhelms him.

He pretends a few minute coughs to disguise the glitches in his breathing. Harry feels himself decompressing with every leisurely, concentrated pass of Pansy’s small hands. Having worked industriously to free up his crazily tight neck muscles, she now alternates between strokes and taps along his vertebrae. Her body heat seeps into his skin as she leans over and across him.

_I have to stay awake,_ he drowsily admonishes himself. _It’d be rude to conk out in the middle of this glorious massage,_ he thinks, yawning hugely.

“Go to sleep, Harry. It’s alright, my love.” Pansy’s whisper penetrates his languid consciousness just before he succumbs to the welcoming embrace of slumber.

_‘My love’… you’re **my** love, Pansy. **My** Pansy… my love…_

Harry falls fully asleep, a little smile lifting his cheeks as Pansy continues to massage his broad back and shoulders.

“Sweet dreams, duckie.”

* * *

**French translations:**

_Je veux faire des cochonneries avec toi… beaucoup plus de choses sales avec toi –_ I want to do dirty things with you… many more dirty things with you.

_Oh, oui... seulement la prochaine fois, je serai celui qui fesse ton beau cul, mon amour_ \- Oh, yes... only next time, I’ll be the one spanking your beautiful bum, my love.


	79. Rivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Piperman and @sofie_ravenclaw. Thank you. I hope you're both safe and well.
> 
> Thank you all very much for reading.  
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter; I hope you enjoy the new P.O.V.s.  
> I've included a glossary for the arcane insults that Lucy and Barney trade (it's at the end).  
> Chapter 80 will centre on the Quidditch match.
> 
> Love from VJ.

__

_Friday 27 March 2003: PM_

“Lucius! I know you’re hiding in there – Kevyn told me you snuck through the side door an hour ago! Come out at once, please; the Grangers will be here any moment.” Lucius winces as his wife’s ( _I shan’t describe it as_ shrill _, that isn’t entirely accurate)_ emphatic voice carries clearly through the closed door of his den.

“One moment, my Cissa,” Lucius replies, regretfully laying down the slim cigar he’d been on the brink of trimming and lighting. He closes the small wooden box, rising from his blood-red Westbury leather armchair to place the cigars back inside the top drawer of his desk. _Kevyn, you tattling elfish twerp… you almost evoke me to regret the departure of that little lunatic Macdolas._

The study door noiselessly swings open. Narcissa Black Malfoy poses dramatically in the doorway, one precisely shaped eyebrow upraised as she assesses Lucius’s appearance.

 _We’ve been wed for twenty-six years, four months, two weeks, and four days – nine thousand, six hundred and thirty days exactly… and the sight of this woman never fails to enrapture me._ Lucius studies his wife just as intently as she is inspecting him, delighting in her resulting heightened colour.

The honey-blonde witch is dressed in the finest evening gown Galleons can buy. A one-sleeved, full-length, midnight blue evening gown with a high leg slit and filmy chiffon overlay; the body of the dress and the transparent sleeve are covered in diamante starburst patterns, winking and glittering under the ambient lighting of the den. High silver heels and diamond earrings complete the ensemble. _I do believe I’ll be testing the upper limits of that thigh split, later on this evening… oh yes, yes indeed…_

A soft “ahem” spurs Lucius to speech. “You are a vision, my love. A goddess, descended from the heavens, yet bearing the scattered stars that could not bear to part from their queen.” Lucius is by her side in three quick strides, delicately lifting her pale left hand to lace kisses from her slim wrist to bared elbow.

Narcissa’s responsive shiver makes him grin against her soft skin, his caresses becoming more intense, until she wrenches her limb from his light grasp and wags her finger in rebuke. “Don’t over-egg the pudding, _mon mari_. Enough distractions, we soon will have guests to welcome.” Narcissa fusses at his impeccably tied pearl silk cravat.

“Cissa – must I be present? I detest the thought of disappointing you, but Healer Kuznetsova did speak at length about the potentiality of my agoraphobia worsening under too much social strain,” Lucius shamelessly attempts to shirk his co-hosting responsibilities.

“I beg to differ; Healer Freya mentioned that a small _family_ gathering would be the perfect way for you to re-integrate into social situations, as you well know. Please, Lucius – I need your support tonight, and your oath that you will treat the Grangers with kindness and respect.” Narcissa’s limpid blue eyes moisten as she rapidly blinks. “Do you truly wish to not attend?”.

 _Salazar’s saturnine schlong... I should have known better than to try my luck_. Lucius pastes a closed-lipped smile on his face as he hastens to assure his spouse, “No, no, my dear; I’d like nothing more than to meet Jane and… Bernie, is it?”.

“It’s _Barney_ – but don’t call him that, unless he invites you to, please. Bernard will be perfectly appropriate, for now. Do you promise to be courteous and congenial?” Narcissa presses. “Our children will soon marry, and I want the merging of our families to be as seamless as possible.”

“Cissa, our son has not even proposed to the witch yet – now, darling, I merely advise against hitching the carriage ahead of the Thestral.” Lucius wishes his words unspoken as Narcissa’s expression darkens to a thunderous frown. “I’ve no objection to the union, if – or when – it does take place. Was that the Floo?” he adroitly manoeuvres them into the hallway and toward the main parlour.

Keeping a brilliant smile upon her face, Narcissa somehow manages to hiss, “Do not embarrass me, or our son, Lucius; or I swear, you will regret it. Jane, Bernard – how lovely to see you again!”. She gracefully gathers Jane Granger into a quick hug, bussing kisses on both the brunette’s cheeks, before affectionately squeezing the arm of the tall, rangy, bearded man beside her.

“Please allow me to introduce my husband, Lucius; Lucius, this is Jane, and Bernard,” she prompts.

“How do you do? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Jane and Bernard.” Lucius turns Jane’s proffered hand to lightly kiss the back of her fingers, smirking inwardly at the affronted look on Mr Granger’s face.

Holding out his hand for Bernard to shake, Lucius freezes in gobsmacked shock when the clown copies his smooth gesture and kisses Lucius’s own knuckles, leaving a rather damp smear on his tightened, pallid skin.

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, eh, Lucy?” Bernard Granger booms, dropping Lucius’s hand and energetically slapping him on the shoulder. “Wait – am I the goose, or the gander? I never can remember.”

“You’re the gander,” Lucius mutters, when his powers of speech have been restored. “Though I would hazard a guess you’re more used to playing the goose,” he snipes. The gibe is unfortunately pitched a shade too loudly to not be overheard; Narcissa glares daggers at him.

“Damned right! You’ll have to do better than that to get under my skin, Lucy – you’ll find it takes quite a lot to get me riled. Hide of a Horned Strumpet, that’s me,” Bernard proudly announces.

“I think you mean an ‘Erumpent’, darling,” Jane gently corrects. “Lucius didn’t grant you permission to use that naughty nickname Hermione devised, either.”

“Lucy here called me a goose, Jane – I think we’ve well and truly moved past titles and onto nicknames, sugarpuss,” Bernard Granger genially argues. “He’s welcome to call me Barney, since we’ve already kissed. Strumpet, Erumpent, you knew what I meant. Actually, I have a question for you, Lucy: do Erumpents have teeth, or grinding plates? Hermione tells me they’re herbivores with small teeth, but she’s never seen one up close.”

Lucius quashes his instinct to bolt from the room when the gregarious Barney claps a meaty paw onto his back as he awaits an answer. _This ridiculous… creature is living proof that bears are not yet extinct in the United Kingdom,_ he muses, glowering as he notices Narcissa’s flagrant grin. _He should be placed in a Muggle zoo, for the love of Artio… definitely kept behind bars of some sort. Cissa warned me he was ‘eccentric’ – strike that, he’s an utter kook._

“Erumpents have teeth,” Lucius finally grits out. “I highly recommend you never approach one to find out for yourself, unless you have a raging death wish… _Barney_.” The sarcasm sails over the other man’s head like an untethered kite.

“Ruddy shame, that; I’m a bit of an esoteric dentition aficionado, Lucy. Hermione’s already warned me off approaching your elves for a bit of a look-see, sadly,” Bernard wistfully shrugs. He cheers immediately as he asks, “Have Draco and Hermione arrived yet, Narcissa? It was our girl’s last day at Ministry, she’s bound to be a bit emotional about it all.”

“Not yet, but we’re expecting them soon,” Narcissa answers. “Would you care to join us for some mocktails? Mizrabel and Kevyn have whipped up some delicious concoctions tonight,” she ushers everyone toward the formal dining room.

 _Mocktails… I’ll never regret becoming teetotallers after Draco’s battles with alcoholism, but if ever an evening called for some mind-deadening Firewhiskey or superlative French wine, this is it._ _Putain de bordel!_ Lucius pretends an air of conviviality he certainly doesn’t feel when he notices Narcissa’s azure eyes boring into him.

“Mocktails sound just the thing, _ma très chère femme_ ,” Lucius tries to subtly escape the Barney-bear’s orbit to gravitate closer to Narcissa as the quartet make their way out of the parlour, though the nutty dentist doesn’t allow him much more personal space.

“Ah, I see you two _tourtereaux_ carry on like Hermione and Draco, eh? Your boy’s forever whispering French smut in my daughter’s ear,” Barney observes. “Did I say that right? I looked up some Gallic endearments on the computer the other day – my sugarpuss likes it when I mix things up a bit.” He nudges Lucius in the ribs hard enough to make him cough.

“Your pronunciation is decidedly coarse, but acceptable, I suppose,” Lucius disagreeably rasps, surreptitiously bracketing his arms at right angles in an effort to block any future blows. “It’s not _smut_ ; I simply called Narcissa ‘my dearest wife’, if you must know.”

“Don’t get tetchy, Luce. Jane spent the better part of an hour lecturing me on how you and I are expected to behave as ‘civilized, mature patriarchs’ – I imagine you got a similar bollocking from your bride, am I right?”. Barney actually has the effrontery to secure Lucius in a ‘genial’ headlock as he mutters the last sentence for Lucius’s ears alone. “Smile and nod, there’s a good chap. We’ll settle our differences when our women aren’t around to censure us. What do you say to that, Luce?”.

Barely able to nod his assent ( _given how tightly this boisterous fool is holding me_ ) Lucius smiles for their wives’ benefit as he softly snarls, “You’ve finally said something worth hearing… _Barn_. Let go of me, you overgrown grizzly bear.”

One final squeeze/choke of his neck before Bernard complies. “Looking forward to it, you pale prick. You might be a notoriously shady Dark wizard, blah blah blah… but I extract human teeth for a living. With my bare hands,” he emphasizes, briefly cramping them into boulder-like fists before grinning wolfishly.

Barney’s demeanour mercurially shifts from menacing to mild as he amends, “I shouldn’t have said ‘bare hands’, I always wear latex gloves – and I use British Dental Association-approved tools, of course – but it sounded more powerful than saying ‘gloved hands’, didn’t it? Anyway, my threat stands.”

 _I retract my early assessment – Bernard Granger isn’t a kook, he’s positively deranged. Who the devil **are** these people?!_ Lucius strides to the far end of the dining room, where Kevyn is enthusiastically shaking up Merlin-knows-what in a silver cocktail shaker.

_This is going to be a long fucking night, isn’t it?_

* * *

Barney gazes adoringly at Jane as she chitters and chatters with Narcissa Malfoy. _How did I ever get lucky enough to marry an angel? I still can’t believe it._ He pinches his cheek, gladdened anew that he is not living in a dream. _Nope. Still real. Heh. Look at us, swanning about in an honest-to-goodness wizardly mansion, wearing pearls and monkey suits. I hope Luce appreciates I donned my third-best outfit for this dinner party. Bloody ponce – his fancy get-up has more tiny buttons than a second-grader has warts._

Lucius must feel the weight of his stare; the prat lifts his mocktail glass in a silent, ironic toast.

 _Yeah, cheers, dickhead._ Barney tips his chin infinitesimally as he aggressively slurps at his Apple Pie Mocktail Mule. _Not a bad beverage, actually. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to employ a house elf. Surely there must be a few willing to work for Muggles? Maybe I could ask that young Zucchini – doesn’t he work in the Ministry’s import/export division? He could help set me up – and what better way to foster harmonious relations between wizards and Muggles, than to share resources? Yeah, I’ll definitely have a word with the bloke at Mac’s party._

Enlivened by the prospect of hiring a house elf, Barney sucks down the remainder of his drink. He signals Kevyn for a refill just as Hermione and Draco enter the room, accompanied by Macdolas and Ruibby.

“Darlings!” Narcissa and Jane descend upon the two couples like benevolent Harpies.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you! Don’t you all look wonderful?! Here, come join us in a few pre-dinner mocktails,” Narcissa entreats.

“How was your last day, sweetie? Please accept our sincerest congratulations on your new roles, Draco, Mac, and Ruibby. We’re so proud of you all,” Jane beams. “And you too, of course, Hermione.”

“Thanks, Mum. Marilda gave the nicest speech, she made me cry,” Hermione admits. “Everyone chipped in to give me a new leather organizer, it’s going to come in really handy for my lesson planning.”

“And for your interminable lists, _ma petite_ ,” Draco slides his arm around her waist, softly kissing her blushing cheek. “The Ministry’s loss is Hogwarts’s gain, of course.”

“MacRu thank Her Grace Lady Jane Granger most kindly for her approbation, and wish to announce they have been granted the most especial privilege of conjoined quarters at the Best and Most Honourable Wizarding Scholastic Institution and Sorcerous Boarding School, the Irrefutably Superior, Traditional yet Progressive Academy for Young Witches and Wizards, the Unique and Irreplaceable Hogwarts Castle – and MacRu shall gratefully accept any furnishings and fribbles that their generous and charitable former employers may deem appropriate to bequeath the blessed couple,” Macdolas gulps in a huge breath at the end of his rambling monologue.

“Shameless little grifter,” Draco chides, at the same time that Lucius quietly grumbles, “You may strip the silk sheets from our very bed if you would only agree to stay silent, you wordy wee windbag.”

_‘Silk sheets’ – I ruddy well knew it. Talk about ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Shameless’… I bet this bastard doesn’t even know the cost of bread and milk._

“How much is a loaf of bread these days, Luce? Go on, humour me,” Barney swaggers nearer. Draco quickly joins them, leaving Hermione to the fussing and cooing over Macdolas’s audacious appeal for free swag.

“We don’t buy bread, _Barn_ ; our elves make it fresh, every day,” Lucius scorns. “I suppose a mass-produced loaf must retail for… what, a handful of Muggle pennies?”. He irritably flips his blond queue over his shoulder.

“Hello Bernard, Father,” Draco warily stands between them. “You’re discussing… bakery goods? Catch me up on the conversation, please; I’m somewhat bemused.”

“Ah, Draco – thank Salazar you’re here,” Lucius sounds almost affectionate as he pats his son’s arm. “My new _mate_ Barney thinks I’ve lost touch with the common people, I believe. I have been under strict house arrest for five years… which does tend to preclude one from wandering into Muggle supermarkets for a few staples.”

 _Imagine this cocky git perusing the dairy shelves at Tesco, digging deep to find the later-dated moo juice._ Barney bursts into raucous laughter at the thought, which intensifies as Lucius recoils in reaction to his lusty guffaws.

“He’s not sane, Draco– far from it,” the older wizard urgently declares. “He’s already struck and threatened me, under the guise of ‘friendly banter’. I need you to tell your mother I’m unwell, and must be excused.”

“Father, he’s harmless – aren’t you, Bernard? He has an… unusual sense of humour, that’s all,” Draco diplomatically claims. “Mother and Jane are determined to make this dinner party a success, so I expect you both to behave appropriately, or risk their combined fury. Hermione won’t be at all happy if this all implodes, either,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You watch your roaming hands when it comes to my daughter, Blondie – I saw your sneaky grab for her bum when you walked in,” Barney leans closer.

“Tell Hermione to keep her fingers off my son – she’s forever plopping into his lap and accosting _him_ ,” Lucius bristles.

“Stop it! My and Hermione’s behaviour is not the issue here – yours is,” Draco snaps. “I wash my hands of you. Kevyn, may I have a mocktail? Whatever’s the fastest to prepare, please.”

“I don’t recommend the ‘I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butterbeer’; it distinctly tastes like acorns and arseholes,” Lucius quips, morosely glaring down into his half-drunk glass.

“You would know, Luce. Kudos for admitting your past brown-nosing, though,” Barney is unable to resist the sally. “Is that why you prefer to wear black? The shit stains don’t show up?”

“You’re a walking shit stain, you tooth-pulling twat.”

“You’re nothing more than affluent effluent.”

“You’re as mad as a bag of ferrets, with markedly fewer brains.”

“You’re a shiver searching for a spine to crawl up.”

“You’re a bespawling bobolyne.”

“Patrician plonker.” 

“Plebian pillock.”

“Fopdoodle!”

“Dalcop!”

Draco grabs his ‘Sober Sailor’ (aka a rose lemon spritzer) as soon as Kevyn pours it. “You’ve devolved to Olde British insults, that’s wonderful,” he lambastes. “Grow up and get over yourselves, or you’ll be comprehensively banned from our wedding... and your future grandchildren’s lives.”

Barney and Lucius are left wearing identically agape expressions as Draco stalks back to join the rest of the party.

“That was harsh,” Barney grouses. “I wasn’t being _wholly_ serious.”

“Yes, well… perhaps I went too far with the ‘ferrets’ insult,” Lucius allows. “You lack their… _concentrated_ ferocity.”

“I shouldn’t have called you a shiver – if anything, you’re a mild shudder,” Barney concedes. _Jane is going to have my head if she realizes I’ve been blatantly bickering with Lord Lofty._ He tries for a friendly grin. “Eh, what do you say we call a truce, Luce?”

“Very well. I refuse to shake your hand – or kiss it,” Lucius backs away a step, his scowl easing. “Don’t smile, it’s incredibly alarming.”

“The overweening wanker says what?” Barney retorts.

“What?!” Lucius spits, before realizing he’s been played for a fool. “Predictably immature, _Barn_.”

“Alright, I apologize. See? I can admit when I go too far.”

“I can’t. Inculcated pride is a dreadful burden, Bernard,” Lucius sighs. “My father was a proud, autocratic, abusive arsehole – naturally, I’ve become just like him, I’m afraid.”

“My father was a fun-loving, irresponsible, shiftless, abusive drunk,” Barney confides. “But he died when I was twelve… wrapped his car around a telegraph pole. He and my mother were killed instantly.” He shrugs, hunching into himself as old hurts flood his mind.

“I swore to use his example as my anti-guide to life. Not the ‘fun-loving’ bit, that’s all me. But the rest… ah, never mind. Sorry – Apple Pie Mocktail Mules always bring out my maudlin side,” he wryly mocks.

“Must be the ginger beer,” Lucius offers, after a short pause. “Narcissa and the Healer have me on a bizarre diet, full of herbal supplements and odd ‘antioxidant’ combinations. Apple cider vinegar, goji berries, chia seeds and turmeric and more beans than I can shake my cane at. They’re mad for all things ginger, too. It’s a huge relief to sit down to some classic fine dining tonight, let me apprise you.”

“Tell me about it – Jane’s personal mission in life lately is to stuff me full of kale and beets, apparently. And the remonstrations about my salt intake! ‘The Salt Police, they are coming for me,” he sings the adapted lyrics to the Cheap Trick classic. “Dream Police? No? Forget it – but yeah, some of the health food kicks she’s been on have been absolutely _dire_ ,” Barney groans. “I’ve resorted to stashing a ‘feed bag’ full of yummy snacks out in the garage – keep that on the downlow though, Lucy.”

“I’ve thought of bribing one of the elves to arrange something similar, but they’re hopelessly loyal to Narcissa,” Lucius sighs. “She’s banned chocolate éclairs for the foreseeable future, and my shrivelled soul withers further with every choux pastry-less day.” His mouth twists at the corners. “That was a joke, Bernard.”

“Hard to tell, you Death Eaters have a singular sense of humour,” Barney parries, chuckling at Lucius’s unimpressed sneer. “Lighten up, Luce, I get it.”

“I must insist you address me as Lucius, Bernard. This… _penchant_ you and your daughter have for creating shortened, inappropriate nicknames is untenable – and intolerable,” Lucius stiffly requests. “It simply won’t do.”

“I beg to differ, my good fellow,” Barney threads the fingers of his left hand between the buttons of his navy waistcoat and adopts his most pompous air. “’Lucy’ suits you to a tee, so Lucy you shall be. I’m loath to involve our shrewd spouses in this petty dispute, but I will if absolutely necessary.” He jerks his spare thumb in the direction of their thick-as-thieves womenfolk.

Obviously fuming, Lucius mutters, “Common as muck,” as he hoicks his hoity-toity nose in the air and struts back to the dining table. Sniggering merrily to himself, Barney lopes along behind him.

_Barney, 1: Lucy, 0._

_Let the games begin._

* * *

_What fresh hell is this?_ Draco pushes Macdolas to precede him into the billiards room; the elf’s pea-green eyes boggle as he too spies the odd display Bernard and Lucius are currently arranging atop the cloth-covered full-sized billiard table.

“Macdolas asks why the ex-Lord Malfoy and the Father Dentist Granger have poured Tabasco sauce into several shot glasses, Master Malfoy? Is this a Muggle custom Macdolas knows of not?” the curious sprite asks.

 _Tabasco – of course._ The mild ache that has been lurking on the edges of Draco’s anxious brain threatens to bloom into a fully-fledged cephalalgia at the realization that Bernard and Lucius are engaged in some sort of idiotic Hot Sauce Challenge. _If they’re trying to decide who is the bigger imbecile, it’s already a tie._

“Because they are more alike than they care to admit, Macdolas. Two grandstanding blowhards butting heads like old rams,” Draco sighs as he answers Macdolas’s question. “I suppose we’d best referee this moronic match, lest one or both end up destroying their stomach lining.”

“Macdolas watches with great interest, Master Malfoy.” He shinnies onto a nearby stool and perches like a Wimbledon umpire.

“Draco, Macdolas: you’re just in time,” Barney crows, rubbing together his large hands in mischievous glee. “Whomever can down five shots of Tabasco – and keep it all _down_ for at least two minutes – will be crowned the Champion. You can be your father’s support crew, I’ll take the Big Mac for back-up.”

“I want no part in this insanity – as Macdolas is my witness, I lodge my full objections to your silly ‘contest’, and strongly advise you both to rethink your plan,” Draco crosses his arms and dourly glares at the two men. “If we hadn’t been told (in no uncertain terms) to not interrupt our females for the next hour, I’d march in there now and sing like a canary.”

Lucius and Barney ignore his severe caution.

“You keep your Venus fly trap shut, Draco. No need to alert the gals, this is a macho rite of passage,” Barney proclaims, squinting as he aligns the final shot glass beside its fellows. “Lucy reckons he can out-do me in any capacity… well, we’ll soon see, eh?”.

“Father – your diet–”

“Cease your quibbling, Draco – my diet can withstand a few mouthfuls of this smelly Muggle condiment, never fear,” Lucius arrogantly waves him off. “Besides, Healer Kuznetsova encourages the regular intake of capascins to increase metabolic function, or some such blather.”

“Lowers the blood pressure too, Luce,” Barney helpfully chips in. “Also puts more pepper in your pecker, if you ask me.” His wink has Draco recoiling and Mac grinning.

“No– stop– enough– and where did you even find the Tabasco sauce?” Draco randomly queries. _Surely Bernard doesn’t regularly travel with it? I wouldn’t rule out anything though, not at this point._ He irritably rubs his palm over his face.

“Macdolas introduces a bottle into the Manor’s pantry after sampling the spicy product at Her Grace Lady Granger’s apartment, Master Malfoy. A new jar,” he stresses. “Macdolas is no thief.”

“Great. Just peachy. Listen, can you hold off for a minute while I fetch some chilled milk, for the inevitable heartburn?” Draco asks, jaw clenching.

“Stay put, Master Malfoy: Macdolas is happy to oblige!” He Disapparates in a blink.

Draco glowers at Lucius and Barney in turn, while the two sires eye each other like prize fighters. _As if dinner weren’t bad enough, what with them swapping outlandish tales of my and Hermione’s ‘achievements’ since our births, in an absurd attempt to outdo one another… Lucius claiming I could walk at six months, and speak fluent French at a year old; Bernard reckoning Hermione was reading Shakespeare at eighteen months of age, and solving advanced trigonometry equations before starting kindergarten._

A snicker involuntarily escapes Draco’s lips as he recalls Narcissa and Jane’s response to the braggartly one-upmanship; they’d merely cut the men out of their dinner chat entirely and increased the volume of their speech, effectively drowning out the outrageous fibbing. Hermione and Draco had made a few endeavours to moderate the inane boasting taking place, but had soon chosen to follow their mothers’ example of leaving the pair of dolts to their own devices.

“The milk, Master Malfoy.” Macdolas reappears, holding out a glass jug of cold milk. His other hand grips two pristine metal cleaning buckets. “For the vomitus, Master,” the clever elf explains.

 _Eewww_. “Good thinking, Macdolas. Thank you.” Draco places a bucket beside each line of shot glasses. “What are the stakes here, gentlemen? Besides being crowned Fatuous Father of the Year?” he razzes.

“Glad you asked, lad. I’m about to win a box of Lucy’s finest Cubans, as well as his unqualified respect and admiration,” Barney replies.

“How quaint – you truly believe yourself to possess a chance,” Lucius dryly rejoins. “When I (ineluctably) triumph, my prize is Bernard’s promise to never, ever, _ever_ again call me ‘Luce’, ‘Lucy’, ‘Lucinda’, or any other derivative along those lines. _And_ he will defer his unconditional admiration and respect to me, naturally,” he sniffs.

“Oooh, I’m going to enjoy this!” Barney hoots. “I can already imagine the joy of holing up in my man cave, kicking back on my car seat couch, feet up, puffing away contentedly on a primo stogie after a hard day at the surgery… ah, good luck, Lucy. Draco, you can be our official timekeeper – remember, the two minute no-spew period begins as soon as the fifth shot glass has been emptied. Got it?”.

“Fine. Begin on three. Ready? Three… two… one… go!”.

Mac’s outsized ears rapidly flick at the spectacle of witnessing Bernard and Lucius chugging down copious amounts of the hot chilli sauce. Barney’s approach is best described as ‘go hard or go home’, as he bolts down each shot as quickly as possible; whereas Lucius slowly drains the glasses, employing his customary graceful finesse.

“Does Master wish to wager on the outcome?” Macdolas whispers, after the first two slugs of Tabasco have been ingested. “Macdolas bets a Galleon on The Father Dentist Granger reigning supreme?”.

“No – and you’re too late, you cannot speculate on the outcome of any competition after it has already begun, Macdolas; it’s considered quite unsporting,” Draco quietly lectures. “I wouldn’t bet against Barney, anyway – he’s a renowned chilli nut.”

After the third shot, both men are patently suffering. Bernard’s face is the colour of cooked beetroot, beads of sweat running from his hairline to his collar. Lucius has turned a shade of bruised yellow-green, his grey eyes bulging as his breath shallows.

“Come on, please stop – you both look terrible,” Draco reaches out to confiscate the remaining four shots.

“No! We _will_ finish this, Draco.” Lucius gulps down his fourth and fifth glasses in quick succession, Barney just ahead of him. “Begin the timer!”.

Holding his wrist aloft, Draco studies the gasping men with growing concern, as Mac cheerily counts down aloud. _Nothing like a pedantic elf in a crisis. Merlin’s bedraggled beard – neither appear to be coping well. Should I summon a Healer? Call in Hermione? Flee the country before they expire at my feet?_

“Twenty seconds,” Mac intones.

A convulsive movement from Lucius; his trembling hands grasp the bucket, his pale head dipping below the rim. To Draco’s astonishment, Barney is also bent over his own steel receptacle.

“Ten seconds!” Macdolas shrieks. “Gentlemen, hold your sauce! Five, four, three–”

Synchronized puking discontinues the count. Draco and Mac prudently step back, clapping their hands over their mouths and noses to avoid emulating the regurgitators.

“Save yourself, Macdolas. I did try to warn them,” Draco sighs, once the heaving has died down to spasmodic tremors and groans. “And I forbid you to clean up their mess – you don’t work here anymore, and they should learn more than one lesson from this debacle.”

“I won, Lucy… I held it in longer…” Barney weakly asserts, bringing up his sweating head; Draco has to avert his horrified eyes. He pulls out his wand.

“You’ve chunks of spew in your beard, Bernard! Hold still, I’ll ‘Scourgify’ you,” he swiftly completes the cleansing spell.

Lucius raises his head to tremulously mock, “Rather disgusting of you, Barney – and you most certainly did not win, you vomited before I.”

“I’m afraid you’ve dipped the ends of your hair into the contents of your bucket, Father,” Draco tamps down his squeamishness as he performs the same service for Lucius. “And it was a tied disqualification: neither of you made it to the two minute mark, therefore you both forfeit. No – no squalling, that is our final decision. There will be no further stupid battles of any sort, or I will expose you both to your wives’ extreme displeasure at your crazy antics, is that understood?”.

He taps his foot until he finally receives a reluctant nod from each fool. “Good. Go sit down… I suppose _I’ll_ have to deal with your revoltingness. You owe me, both of you.” Snatching up the handles of the soiled buckets, Draco flounces from the room.

Returning ten minutes later, he is flabbergasted at the scene that greets him. Macdolas is sitting in a child-sized armchair ( _my old armchair, if I’m not mistaken_ ), coughing fit to kill, a lit cigar in one hand. Lucius and Barney are puffing away on their own cheroots, taking turns at blowing smoke rings and desultorily whacking Macdolas on the back.

“Take it easy, Big Mac; small puffs, don’t try to inhale yet. You’ll be right,” Bernard soothes.

“Give that to me! For the love of serpents, don’t start him smoking!” Draco rages, pinching the dangling half-cigar from Macdolas’s fingers and stubbing it out in a nearby ashtray. “What’s going on here? You were at each other’s throats all night… and now you’re best buds?”.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Draco; shouldn’t you be pleased that we’ve set aside our piddling squabbles in favour of family harmony?” Lucius fashions a large smoke ring, drifting it straight into Draco’s irked face. “Barney was just divulging some fascinating tips on how to deter peacocks from one’s roof, actually. Water pistols, you say? How intriguing…”

“Plastic water rifles are better, Lucy – you want the full pump-action models, peacocks hate water. It won’t hurt them, but they’ll think twice about roosting up there,” Bernard wisely nods. “Or I could set you up with a motion-activated sensor, that’ll stop the proud buggers in their tracks, any time of the day or night.”

“Excellent – King Blizzard’s reign of terror will soon come to a close. Thank you, Barn.”

“You’re most welcome, Luce.”

 _I can’t deal with this capricious lunacy… I just can’t._ Draco points a forbidding finger at Macdolas. “You stay right there, please – and no more cigars, or cordial, or anything else these two decide to try to corrupt you with, got it? I’m going back to the library, to sip tea with sane females. I’m done here.”

Masculine laughter follows him from the room; Draco slams it closed behind him, rubbing at his throbbing temples. _Is this chaotic good merging with chaotic evil? Or is it just chaos theory at work? Either way, I can’t make head nor tail of it._

_And I suppose I prefer Lucius and Barney being friendly, as opposed to hostile; but their sudden companionable alliance is frightfully uncanny. Wait until Hermione hears about this… I’ve little doubt she’ll be equally as perturbed as I. Mayhap she’ll be able to puzzle out their weirdness; she **did** read Macbeth when she was a toddler, according to her proud papa. _

Striding down the hallway, he grins as he imagines Hermione and Ruibby’s reactions to finding out Macdolas was smoking ( _well, choking on_ ) a cigar. _Little duffer._

His smile fades as he considers how Macdolas’s upcoming party presents many diabolical opportunities for Barney and Lucy-based devilry.

_Oh, dragon shite… what have we done?!_

* * *

**French translations:**

_Putain de bordel –_ for fuck’s sake.

 _mon mari_ – my husband.

 _ma très chère femme_ – my dearest wife.

 _tourtereaux_ – lovebirds.

**Olde English insults:**

Bespawling bobolyne – dribbling (drooling) fool

Fopdoodle – insignificant, idiotic man

Dalcop – dull head (literally).


	80. Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to you all for reading this story.  
> I'm so incredibly grateful for all your readership and support.  
> I truly could not (and would not) have gotten to this point without your help and encouragement.  
> Special thanks to my wonderful & very patient beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy Blaise and Gus's interactions in this chapter (coming up next, Hermione and Draco and their uniforms *ahem*).
> 
> Lots of love, and best wishes for your health and happiness.  
> 🧡🤍💜 VJ.

__

_Saturday 28 March 2003: AM_

“Gelsy, no one cares if the egg and lettuce sandwiches have a parsley garnish! Come along, we’ll be late,” Blaise tries and fails to chivvy along his diligent house elf. The sense of excitement and glee he’d woken with has increased three- or four-fold in the interminable hours since.

“Master Blaise forgets he wastes half an hour of Gelsy’s valuable time this morning, modelling and rejecting a succession of outfits for the day,” she instantly retorts. “’Gels, do you think I can pull off all-white, or does it look too _bridal_?’” she quotes his earlier words to him in a spookily accurate rendition of his much deeper tones and inflections. “Gelsomina’s patience is sorely tested when Master Blaise elects at last to take her initial advice to wear his Quidditch gear straight to the match,” she snips.

“Yes – but I have to shower and change afterward, and I want to make sure I look my best for– for our luncheon,” Blaise defends. He tries a diversion tactic as Gelsy’s mouth purses to reply. “You look lovely today, Gels; are you hoping to attract the eye of a certain hairy little German, perhaps?”.

Gelsy makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss. “Master Blaise’s ‘jest’ falls as flat as a pancake; he would do better to focus his mind on the game ahead, and leave humour to the professionals. Herr Wireceaster’s presence does not concern Gelsomina, much as a tigress notices not the earthworm at her feet.”

_Ouch. Guess Wirey’s still on the outer. Silly little git… I do feel some sympathy for him, even if he did bring their antipathy on himself._ Blaise grins as he thinks of how his own persistence paid off, with Gussie. _She thought me a cavalier playboy arsehole at first, yet now she’s coming to watch me play Quidditch– no, to watch me **win** Quidditch, today. I’ve gone from being rejected, to friend-zoned, to having my beautiful woman cheering me on the sidelines… not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Heh._ He pictures Gus jumping to her feet, screaming his name every time he sends a Bludger sailing high with a graceful flick of his bat…

“Do rid yourself of that dopey smile, Master Blaise; Gelsomina has twice now advised the picnic hamper is ready to be transported!”. She follows her words with a well-placed finger drilled into his thigh. “Wizards,” she mutters disparagingly, as he pivots toward the Floo.

Grabbing the handle of the large wicker basket, Blaise ignores Gelsy’s little barb, letting his grin wholly suffuse his joyful face. _Time for Blaise the Praised to shine… and shine, I will._

“I hope you packed some pom-poms, Gels: you’re going to need them!”.

* * *

Scanning the small population of spectators seated in the main stand, Blaise immediately zooms in on the familiar figures of Tavi and Mrs Green, Nella’s greying head bent down to the child’s fair one. He rapidly peruses the rest of the crowd, puzzlement turning to disappointment as he confirms Gus’s absence.

“She’s not here.” He thinks his words too softly-spoken to be overheard, until Gelsy lays a comforting small hand upon his wrist.

“Auror Gilmont has likely been delayed, or is perhaps visiting the facilities?” she nods to the utilitarian toilet block/changing room building located on the left of the Quidditch oval. “Master Blaise need not fret. She is a witch of her word.”

“Thanks, Gels,” he mumbles. “Yeah, you’re right. Gus would have sent a note if she couldn’t make it.”

Gelsy bustles up the steps. “Master Blaise behaves like a schoolboy with his first crush; Gelsomina will be most relieved when Mistress Augusta finally puts him out of his misery. _Andiamo!_ ”

_Take-charge women – I’m surrounded by them,_ Blaise ponders. _Gelsy, Mrs Green, even Tavi – the kidlet already has me wrapped around her little fingers and thumbs. I guess I’m a sucker for strong females. Although, if anyone has the right to order me about, it’s Gelsy; she’s been the closest thing to a mum to me since I was born. Ah, don’t get maudlin, Blaise. Gus’ll be here soon; you’ll have a cracker of a match; and then you get to enjoy a delicious picnic with your favourite people in the world._

He bounds up the stairs, his customary grin firmly back in place on his attractive face. “Hallo, ladies! Mrs Green, don’t you look fetching? Miss Octavia – do my eyes deceive me, or are you wearing Slytherin house colours?”. The little girl is dressed in loose shamrock-green trousers, a white blouse, and a silvery knitted cardigan. Tricky the triceratops is sitting proudly in her lap.

“Mr Blaise! Gus is going to _die_ when she sees you – are they all your own muscles, or is a lot of it protective padding?” Tavi earnestly knocks down his ego a peg or five.

“Grew most of them myself, Miss Octavia,” he wryly replies, as Gelsy and Nella snicker. “Speaking of Gus – has she been called into work? I thought she was coming with you? She was rather insistent that I meet you all here, when I offered to swing by to escort my girls to the game.”

“Oh, Gus is–”

“Aye, dinna get your breeks in a bind, lad. Gus skedaddled to the nettie – the loo,” Mrs Green clarifies. “The lass’ll return, aal reet. Has a surprise for ye, a right canty surprise,” she grins. “Aa dorsn’t say more, nee.”

_A surprise? Has Gussie gone the whole hog and dressed in Slytherin colours, too?_ Blaise preens a little. Gelsy’s little nudge to his hip recalls his manners.

“Mrs Green, may I present my dear housekeeper, cook, nanny, governess, Girl Friday, Indisputable Ruler of Villa Zabini, and all-round legend, Signorina Gelsomina? Gelsy, this charming young lady is Mrs Green.” Blaise performs the introductions.

“Sleekit bugger, ye be, young Blaise,” Nella indulgently shakes her head. “Come thee ways, Signorina, an’ sit atwix,” she shuffles down the wooden bench, patting the gap she’s created. “Pelt away, lad.”

“But I wanted to see Gussie before the match,” Blaise whines. _Wanted to ask her for a good luck kiss too, in truth._

“You’ll see her soon, Mr Blaise!” Tavi pipes up, giggling as she kicks her splinted legs. The toy dinosaur bounces across her spindly legs. “Good luck!”.

“Thanks, Kiddo. Go easy on the snacks, Gelsy’s made us a scrumptious lunch,” he sets down the hamper. “See you in a while,” he busses a quick kiss onto each female’s cheek, before galloping down the staircase.

_She’s here – I can’t wait to find out the surprise she has in store! Maybe some kind of enchanted banner, magicked to sing my praises whenever I block a Bludger, or whack one into the opposition? Hmm… it’s not quite Gussie’s style, but I live in hope._

Humming ‘Hail the Conquering Hero’, Blaise hustles into the changing rooms.

* * *

“Hermione! Oi, POLLYANNA!” Pansy hollers, uncaring of the startled heads swinging her way at the bottom of the stands as her friend _finally_ looks in the right direction. Hermione beams as she ascends to Pansy’s row, Macdolas and Ruibby hot on her heels.

“Where have you been? The game is about to start – I’m flabbergasted you weren’t here an hour ago, given your reputation for promptness and accountability,” Pansy teases, after stepping back from their fond embrace. “Hullo Mac, Ruibby – you both look very smart, by the way.”

“MacRu thank Mistress Parkinson most meekly,” Ruibby bobs a curtsey. “Darlingest Macdolas suggests MacRu dress similarly, to show their support of both the Houses of Granger-Malfoy and our Most Revered Benefactor Master Harry James Potter,” she gestures to their multi-striped matching robes. “Scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, green and silver for Slytherin.”

“Just go with ‘MacRu’ – they have a ‘couple name’ now. Draco scorns it as a passing fad, but I think it’s sticking… with them, anyway,” Hermione whispers in Pansy’s ear. “Aren’t they the cutest?”.

“Oh, I see… well, you can certainly wear them again at Christmas, they look rather festive,” Pansy smiles. She quirks her eyebrow at Hermione. “You haven’t yet answered my question, _amiga_.”

“If you _must_ know – I was trying to sneak a peek at Draco in his Seeker get-up, and he kept evading me by Disapparating from room to room in the townhouse, the sly wretch,” Hermione grumbles. “He led me a merry chase, before he finally snuck away. Left a note claiming he wanted me to experience ‘the full effect’ of his sporting prowess on the field.”

“It’s pitch, not field: Quidditch, ‘ _Queerditch_ Marsh’, ditch, pitch– get it?” Pansy explains. “Merlin, have we truly discovered the one topic Hermione Granger doesn’t know everything about?” she lightly ribs.

“You’re having far too much fun with this, aren’t you, Pans? I have the perfect revenge; you get to explain the game to me, while we watch,” Hermione smugly rejoins. “I’ll warn you in advance, I ask a lot of obscure, aggravating questions.”

“Oh joy,” Pansy pretends to grouse. “Tavi, Mrs Green, and Gelsy are saving us seats – they got here _early_ , the view is magnificent. MacRu – reserve some spittle for the cheering, please,” she gently nudges apart the diminutive fey lovers before their impassioned kiss further intensifies.

Once they have all been greeted and seated, Hermione leans in for an intimate chat. “I had morning tea with Harry yesterday, you know,” she begins.

“Yes – he told me last night,” Pansy breezily replies. “I thought you wanted to see Draco all geared up? They’ll be coming out any minute, now.”

“Yeah, yeah – you’re trying to change the subject – _ohmigod_ , you’re actually blushing! Pansy Parkinson, you’ve moved in with Harry now, haven’t you? _Haven’t you?!_ ” Hermione just about screeches.

“Shush! Settle down, you madwoman! No, no – of course not! We’re just… enjoying each other’s company,” Pansy snaps back.

“Mmm… eating dinner together every night, cuddling up like a couple of contented possums, listening to Harry’s record collection, smooching up a storm… sleeping together… giving him massages,” Hermione pauses for dramatic effect, while Pansy briefly considers slapping the irksome, know-it-all simper off her dial. “Hey, no judgement – been there, done that, ended up moving in with my boyfriend within a month of ‘not dating’ him! Just a friendly caution, my friend.”

“What did Harry say about it?” The question bursts from Pansy’s lips before she can censor herself. _Morgana, I’ve played right into Pollyanna’s complacent little hands. Dammit!_

“Well, now... didn’t I promise you both to respect your confidences?” Hermione taunts, before contradicting her own stance. “It’s fine – Harry didn’t say anything to me he wouldn’t want you to hear, Pansy. He said he’s never been this happy in his life. _Ever_. How do you like them apples? Huh?”. She rocks back, nodding to herself.

“ _’Them’_ apples...? Hermione, are you feeling unwell?”. Pansy tentatively places the flat of her hand against her friend’s forehead to assess her temperature. “Are you… pregnant?”.

“NO! Sorry, sorry,” Hermione ducks her head, weakly smiling at their interested companions. She lowers her voice as she continues, “No, I’m not; and please, don’t start banging that drum again… I was nervous for days after your last mini-lecture, OK? It’s a famous line from a Muggle film, a guy bragging about getting a girl’s number in a bar… never mind.”

“You’re an odd woman sometimes, Golden Girl,” Pansy smiles. Despite her best efforts to appear nonchalant, effervescent bubbles of joy surge through Pansy’s mind as she processes what Hermione’s just told her.

_I feel exactly the same… despite all the emotional turmoil I’m still working through, my relationship with Harry has already enriched my life in all the best ways._

Desperate to share her overspilling joy, Pansy whispers to Hermione, “Harry cleared out the top two drawers in his bedroom for my things – and one half of his wardrobe. He was so cute, Hermione – I think he was terrified of ‘rushing’ me, so he kept coming back to it in a roundabout way, like, “There should be some space in that top drawer if you want to keep your night-things in it, I hardly use it,” and Kreacher spent a couple of days cleaning out and furnishing a little parlour for my ‘especial use’,” Pansy confides. “He even put a big vase of fresh flowers on the desk! Pink peonies – my favourite.”

“Yep – you’ve moved in, and clearly Kreacher approves,” Hermione grins. “Hmm, I wonder how Harry knew of your favourite flower?” she prompts. “Perhaps our boyfriends have been colluding…?”

“Well, I’ve seen stranger alliances,” Pansy mulls. “And for the last time, I haven’t ‘moved in’, I’m just spending time with Harry. How did last night’s dinner party at the Manor go?”.

Hermione grips Pansy’s arm. “Speaking of strange alliances! Dad and Lucius spent the whole meal baiting and sniping at one another, it was incredibly awkward until we decided to simply ignore them. Narcissa, Mum, Ruibby and I holed up in the library to plan Mac’s surprise birthday party while the males went to the billiards room… we kept our ears tuned for any blow-ups, but about half an hour later Draco burst in and drank three cups of hot tea in quick succession, rubbing his temples and muttering darkly about halfwits and Tabasco sauce? He refused to go into much detail, but apparently Lucy and Dad held some kind of dopey competition and ended up bonding over cigars and peacock deterrent techniques, if you can believe it.”

“Hold up – Lucius and Barney are… mates? Are they playing at some kind of long con, Pollyanna?” Pansy demands, unable to reconcile the image of haughty Lucius befriending gregarious Barney. “No – I’m calling bullshit, honestly. That’s just… too weird.”

“Right?!? Oh, and Draco wasted no time ratting on Mac for trying to smoke a half-stogie with them – Ruibby was _not_ pleased,” Hermione giggles. “I love Mac dearly, but he has a terrible tendency to insert himself right into the thick of any and every drama going.”

The two witches peer down the row; Macdolas has commandeered Mrs Green’s crochet hook and yarn, and somehow managed to get his thumb stuck into the beanie she’s been working on. His gnarly little paw is flapping about as Mrs Green clucks her tongue and remonstrates with him to ‘Stow ye stotin’, ye silly billy!”.

“See what I mean?” Hermione sighs, while Ruibby grabs hold of one of Mac’s arms, Gelsy the other; Tavi keeps up a steady patter of excitable advice on how best to untangle the crocheting from the sulking elf. “Draco reckons Mac thrives on histrionics; he claims McGonagall is going to have to purchase a new filing cabinet just for the excessive quantity of reports and written warnings he’ll generate.”

They both burst into spontaneous laughter, rollicking to and fro on the hard wooden bench. Pansy is the first to recover, as she spots movement at the entrance to the changing rooms. “They’re coming onto the pitch! Look – Harry’s leading them out, Hermione. Go, Harry! THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND – HARRY POTTER!” she yells, standing and waving as she succumbs to the urge to literally shout her happiness to the rooftops.

“GO, HARRY! YOU’VE GOT THIS, DUCKIE!”. She pretends not to hear Hermione apparently dying of hilarity after hearing her pet name.

“ **MY BOYFRIEND HARRY POTTER IS GOING TO KICK ARSE TODAY! WATCH AND WEEP, BITCHES!!** ”

* * *

_Here we go._ Blaise adjusts his grip on his broomstick, tuning out whatever motivational crap Draco is spouting.

“There’s no ‘I’ in team”, “catches win matches”, “this game is eighty percent perspiration, twenty percent motivation” _– well, that’s bound to be quite a stinker. What’s our team name again? The Renegades?_ Blaise checks the temporary logo on his Transfigured purple robes. _At least lilac’s my colour… ah, no need for modesty – every colour suits me, right? Well, maybe not mustard yellow… nah, I can totally pull that off, too…_

“Zabini! What did I just say, about the Dopplebeater Backbeat Defence?” Draco’s sharp voice interrupts his merry daydream. “We’re relying on you Beaters to clear the way out there. You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”.

“It’s the move where we work together to smash a Bludger with extra force, when the rest of the team needs more time to regroup,” George Weasley helpfully mutters from the side of his smiling mouth. “Except with a back-hand smash. Malfoy’s taking this pretty seriously, hey?”.

“He’s always been an intense git,” Blaise agrees. “Thanks, George.”

To Draco, he replies, “Gotcha. Smash the Bludger to kingdom come – no worries.” He adopts a stern expression, though his exhilaration at soon finally seeing Gus in the crowd works against him. “Well? What are waiting for? Go, Team Rebels!”.

“We’re the Renegades, Blaise,” Chaser Maghella Weaver snickers behind him. “Just stay focused on keeping those Bludgers off us, and you’ll be fine,” she assures.

“Let’s do this!” Chaser Angelina Johnson high-fives Chaser Puck Brady, who stares at him sympathetically. “Zabini, look sharp and follow George’s lead.”

Keeper Cordelia Kedward encouragingly slaps him on the back as she zooms out the door.

_Why is everyone treating me like a flying handicap?_ Blaise pouts. _I know what I’m doing; I just get a little distracted, occasionally–_

“Blaise – for the love of Snakes, get out there!” Draco all but catapults him out of the sheds. Zipping around the lower outskirts of the pitch, Blaise’s eyes immediately seek out his support crew in the stands. _Still no sign of Gussie… I hope she’s alright –_

“Hey, Blaisey!” Gus’s husky voice sings out from behind. “Ready for a good old-fashioned trouncing? Time for the Enforcers to bring the Renegades in for questioning, I believe.”

Only his cat-like reflexes save him from toppling off his broomstick, as he turns to goggle at Gus – _my Gussie, dressed in a tangerine orange Beater’s uniform – with that (similarly attired) prick Kolton Faulkner flanking her. **Oh, shiiiiii**_ **–**

“’S’up, Zabini? Cat got your tongue?” Faulkner grins unpleasantly, clearly chuffed with Blaise’s degree of gaping bewilderment. “Damn, I’m going to enjoy this game,” he shifts a little closer to Gus, leaving barely an inch or two between their hovering broomsticks. “You should have worn head gear, Zabs – you’re going to need it.”

_Zabs?! You sly, abbreviating fucker._ Quashing his impulse to plant his fist firmly into Kolton’s stupid face, Blaise regains the power of speech.

“Hi, Gussie – you look amazing,” his admiration and awe infuse the heartfelt statement. Blaise chuckles wryly at the look of arch triumph emblazoned across her beautiful features. “You got me good, huh? Serves me right for being a sexist dickhead. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. That’s the only concession I’m giving you today, though; I hope you brought your ‘A’ game, Blaise,” Gus warns, showing off with a sudden full Twirl. “Good luck,” she winks, before buzzing over to her starting position. Faulkner loiters a moment longer, all pretence of good humour vanished.

“Watch yourself, dickhead.”

“ _You_ watch yourself, arsemonkey.” Blaise surreptitiously flips him the double bird as the Auror flies off. _Well, that was mature. Gus claims he’s just a friend, but that shitbird wants to be more – I can tell. Fat chance, fathead._ His blood pressure rockets in line with his possessiveness. _It’s OK – she doesn’t want him… she wants **you**. She said so. Focus._

Stretching and shaking his neck and upper arms, Blaise grins and smiles as he acknowledges Tavi and Mrs Green’s screams and howls of support. Choosing not to participate in their boisterous cheers, Gelsy remains sitting primly… though he is pleased to see her wily smile as she strenuously shakes a couple of glittering violet pom-poms. Hermione and Pansy barely spare him a glance, avidly concentrating on their boyfriends’ progress in the air.

Blaise hurries to take his place, unable to take his gaze off Gus. Her Beater’s outfit emphasizes her strength and beauty, her long legs flexed and her shoulder muscles tensed as she expertly balances on her broom. _Damn, she’s gorgeous… I could watch her fly all day–_

One long blare of the silver whistle as the referee releases all four balls into play from the central circle. Gus and Kolton swoop onto the nearest Bludger, immediately firing it in his direction.

_Whump!_ Blaise dodges most of the impact, his jaw singing as the heavy ball grazes his chin. _Oww…_

“Zabini, on your six!” George hollers, seconds before the Bludger returns to plough into his ribs. “Wake up, Sunny boy!”.

“Sodding hell – I’m awake now!” Blaise groans. _What did Draco say, about a time limit for this match…? I really should have paid more attention. Also… I could be in for a world of hurt._

Grimacing, Blaise steadies his grip on his bat before he abandons his pride and screams for George to cover him.

_Why did I ever think this would be_ fun _?!_

* * *

_Saturday 28 March 2003: PM_

George Weasley bids him farewell, leaving Blaise alone in the shower stalls. Sticking his sore head back under the lukewarm spray, Blaise moans as he is finally able to give voice to his many aches and pains. _Was that a friendly Quidditch match, or all-out warfare? Thank Merlin Draco finally snaffled the Snitch and pulled me out of the line of fire._ He prods gingerly at his bruised eye socket. _That bastard Faulkner was lucky the referee missed his blatant elbow to my cheek. Dirty pool, indeed._

Blaise smiles as he considers how the Enforcers’ unexpected loss bent Kolton’s beak out of shape. _Harry didn’t seem too fussed… the bloke’s got it bad for Pansy, he made a beeline for her as soon as we’d all finished shaking hands. I don’t know which of them looked happier, actually._

_I hope Gus doesn’t think less of me for being an – well, let’s say, ‘erratically brilliant’ Beater,_ he sombrely ponders. _I certainly had my arse handed to me on a platter today. At least she didn’t seem to delight in the stuffing being pummelled out of me._

“Zabini? Have you drowned in there?”. Blaise skitters away from the taps at the sound of Gus’s voice, snatching up his towel to wind around his hips. He secures the ‘garment’ just before she rounds the corner.

“Gussie! What if George or Puck were still in here? Or Draco?” Blaise squeals. “Just give me a minute, alright?”. He can’t meet her eyes as an unfamiliar emotion takes hold. _Am I feeling… self-conscious?_ Me _? I guess being mercilessly hunted around the Quidditch pitch for the last ninety minutes might have dinged my self-assurance a tad._ Keeping his back turned, he begins to sidle toward the cubicle containing his clothing.

“Untwist your knickers – I saw George and Puck leave, and Draco bolted out of here as soon as Hermione Disapparated home, OK? I gave you plenty of time to make yourself decent – Blaise, your ribs!” Gus gasps; her cool, nimble fingers stroke the huge bruise along his side as he freezes mid-step. “Why didn’t you see the Healer? Our Keeper Amy did, and she only had a split lip,” she chides. The palpable concern in her voice clogs his throat.

“Didn’t– I didn’t want to be late. For our picnic,” he rattles out, automatically closing his eyes as she gently runs her hands over his bruised skin. “Gelsy can fix me up when we get home tonight.”

“By Rowena, Blaise – your health is more important than a few sandwiches and home-made lemonade! Stay still – I’m healing you right now.” Gus whips out her wand, chanting “Episkey” until she is satisfied that every wound and contusion is repaired.

“But they’re really good sandwiches, Gus; Gelsy even garnished them with a sprig of parsley,” Blaise wisecracks, chancing a quick peek at her frowning face. “I’m fine, really. Thank you, Gussie.”

He carefully slides his left hand onto the sweet curve of her jeans-clad hip, loving how warm she feels. He sucks in a startled breath as she mimics his movement, resting her palm on his taut stomach, just above the thick towel’s upper edge.

“Isn’t it tradition, to award the victor a kiss?” Gus languorously asks, settling her other hand on his damp chest. “Congratulations, Blaisey.”

Breathtakingly aware of every tiny detail of the woman before him, Blaise’s anticipation reaches hitherto unknown heights. The world narrows down to the few square feet of their interaction. Frightened to speak – _Gods, I’m petrified to breathe too loudly_ – lest Gus change her mind about bestowing him a kiss, Blaise keeps perfectly still, only his long dark eyelashes jittering as he watches her shuffle ever nearer.

“You’re so sexy, Blaise… especially now, when you’re not trying to be,” Gus purrs, her fingertips setting him aflame with the tiniest of rotations; she watches in fascination as his lower abs contract and relax with every miniscule sweep. “I guess I expected you to be blasé about the whole sexual attraction thing, given our inequal levels of experience… but you’re amazingly receptive, aren’t you?”.

“To– to you– I’m receptive to _you_ – of course I am,” Blaise somehow manages to rasp a reply. “I burn for you, Gussie. I’ve never felt like this with another woman, ever. It’s not a line… please believe me, _la mia splendida ragazza_.”

“What does that mean?” she wonders, so near now that he can clearly note the darker bark-brown ring around each of her stunning topaz irises. “ _’La mia splendida ragazza’_? I can guess the splendid part, but ‘ _ragazza’_?”.

“It means ‘my gorgeous girlfriend’,” Blaise whispers. “I’d love to make it the truth, Gussie.” He holds his breath as it is her turn to freeze. _Why did I have to blurt out that?! I’m an overeager idiot, obviously_. His heart crumples as Gus remains rooted in place. Just as he miserably decides he’s gone too far, her mouth urgently crashes onto his.

Elated, Blaise follows her lead. Finesse forgotten, he tangles his tongue with her darting one, sucking hotly. Her hungry hands seem determined to inventory every inch of his flesh, starting with his tight belly. It takes all of his willpower to not thrust mindlessly against her as she squeezes, strokes, and even scratches his bared skin with her short nails. Blaise’s hands tremble as they settle on her shoulders, lightly gripping at the soft cotton of her simple black t-shirt.

_I’m being thoroughly ravished by this enchanting, amazing, ever-surprising witch – and I just want more and more,_ he muzzily decides. Her teeth nip his earlobes; he turns his head to grant her greater access to the banded muscles of his throat and neck. Her nips turn to love bites, each sending a flare of insanely intense desire back to his rhapsodic brain.

“ _Eeeeeeeeeeee_ ,” Blaise whimpers, as Gus thirstily maps her hands across and down his broad back, her fingers plucking at the soft material barely shielding his buttocks – and rock-hard phallus. _Sweet Aphrodite, I’m in danger of losing all control._

“Gussie– wait–” he spins her around, so that her back is resting against the outer wall of the small cubicle. “Let me kiss you back, _tesoro_ ,” he captures her roaming hands, moving them to his shoulders. “You taste so good.”

_She tastes like honey, real honey, licked off a warm wooden spoon in an Italian farmhouse on a sultry summer afternoon._ Blaise slowly licks at her panting lips, keeping his dark eyes open as he drinks in her flagrant arousal. His thumbs rub against her collarbones, his palms flattening against the upper swells of her bounteous breasts. “Is this OK? Shall I stop?” he whispers against her mouth.

“No – please – please touch me, Blaise. Touch my breasts,” Gus groans. “Not just the tops… don’t stop, _tesoro_.”

Hearing Gus call him ‘sweetheart’ in Italian kicks Blaise’s engulfing passion up a whole other gear. His hands move to cup her ripe globes over her shirt and bra, loving the way they fill his big hands. He watches her face intently as he flicks at her nipples through the dual layers, taking her pleasured moans as assent to keep exploring. Gus’s fingers weave together to hold the back of his head in place as he leans down to kiss the valley of her cleavage.

“More, Blaise – pull it up, I want to feel your mouth on me,” Gus impatiently insists, arching her back in ardent invitation.

Despite her restlessness, Blaise takes his time folding up her shirt; he reveals her beautiful bosom like a man uncovering a rare masterpiece from beneath a drop cloth. Hands quivering once more, he tugs down the cups of her plain black bra, easing the wide straps further along her shoulders as her glorious breasts pop free of the supportive apparel. Blinking furiously, Blaise takes another moment to soak up the magnificent picture she presents.

“Well? Don’t just stand there, Zabini,” Gus bosses, pretending a bored yawn. “Some lothario you are – you look like you’ve never seen a pair of tits before.”

Blaise shakes his head forcefully, recognizing the nerves beneath her naughty teasing. “I’ve never seen _your_ perfect, beautiful, wonderful breasts before, Gussie. I’m humbled, and greatly honoured,” he solemnly declares. “You’re absolutely gorgeous, Ms Gilmont.”

Gus closes her eyes, thrusting out her chest again in silent supplication. Blaise traces his index fingers around her cupid-pink areolae, fascinated anew as her nipples pebble and swell. _So responsive…_

“You like that, Gussie? Wait until I place my lips on you, _tesoro_ ,” he says, struggling to hear his own hoarse promise over the hammering of his excited heart. Emboldened by her keening moans, Blaise feathers his thumbs across her nipples, finally rubbing them with all his fingertips.

“Your mouth – Blaise, please,” she repeats, her eyes snapping open, pupils wide and darkened to treacle-brown. “ _Now_.”

Utterly ecstatic to be given such a comprehensive go-ahead, Blaise rushes to comply. He firmly cradles each beautiful breast in his hands, bending his head to latch onto first her right nipple, then her left, spurred on by Gus’s eager cries and her fingers convulsively yanking at his hair and ears, holding him in place.

_Oh, Gussie… my beautiful warrior… mia feroce bellezza_. He glories in every one of her pleasured sighs and grunts, shackling his own feral desire and aching loins. _Not here – not now._ Before they both reach the point of no return, Blaise regretfully bequeaths a final torrid kiss to each breast and scrupulously affixes her clothing back into place. He cannot resist lacing his hands around her waist and nibbling at her neck, though.

“What– why– no–” Gus gripes, rearing back to glare at him with passion-glazed eyes. “I didn’t say to stop!”.

“Gussie, we’re still in the changing rooms of the Ministry’s Quidditch pitch – and I’m clothed in a slipping white towel,” Blaise chuckles. “One last kiss, before you skedaddle and I get appropriately attired for our picnic, hmmm?”.

He embraces her tightly as their mouths fuse, giving and taking in equal measure. Blaise is lost to the heady rapture of the experience until an angry male voice breaks the spell.

“Get off her, you pig!”. Rough hands rudely yank him away, sending him skidding across the slippery floor. Blaise struggles to maintain his balance and his dignity, his left hand somehow keeping the towel locked in place as he bangs into the tiled shower wall.

Faulkner stands between them, his not inconsiderable bulk heaving, face furious. “Leave, Gus – I’ll take care of this prick.”

“Kolton Faulkner – if you so much as BREATHE on my boyfriend again, I’ll knock you into next year,” Gus snarls, using the wall to propel herself in front of a winded Blaise. “I don’t know what it is you thought you saw – but we were just kissing, you dolt!”. Her dishwater blonde ponytail flicks as she disbelievingly shakes her head. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, anyway?”.

_Kolt the Dolt… oh, yeah._ Blaise crosses one leg in front of the other, smirking fit to kill.

“Gus, you can’t be serious – he’s a sleaze and a cocky fool, you hate guys like that,” Faulkner counters, walking closer. Blaise straightens, quite prepared to abandon the towel in favour of teaching this interfering turd a lesson.

“Stop – I don’t need or want you to act the overprotective big brother, Kolton. If you can’t – or won’t – be respectful to Blaise, you’re no longer welcome in my life. Get out.” Gus’s sensual mouth is flattened in a hard line as she points to the door. “You heard me.”

“We’re partners, Gus – don’t be like this, huh? So you got your head turned by a pretty boy – it happens. It’s OK, I’m the one who’ll be here when it all falls apart.” Kolton spreads his hands in an aggravating gesture of condescending magnanimity.

“I won’t say it again, Kolt. If you continue to be patronizing and uncivil, I’ll ask Harry for a partner reassignment on Monday. Goodbye.” Gus continues to glower at Faulkner as she threads her fingers through Blaise’s.

“Fine. You made your bed, Gus.” Kolton’s mouth works violently, before he abruptly swivels on his heel and charges outside.

Gus keeps her head bowed, slight aftershocks of the fraught confrontation vibrating her tall frame. Her handhold tenses and relaxes.

The full implications of Gus’s ferocious defence – and her strident proclamation – finally seep into Blaise’s consciousness. _She claimed me as her boyfriend… she put me ahead of her friendship, and her partnership… I can’t believe it._

_I’m going to be the best damned boyfriend ever – you bet I am._ Delicately casting a kiss to the crown of Gussie’s blonde head, Blaise murmurs, “Thank you, _tesoro_. For everything. I won’t let you down… I promise.”

Her tone a little uneven, Gussie replies, “You’re a bit scared of me now, aren’t you? Good… you should be.”

Laughing softly, Blaise nods, before pressing together their foreheads. “Just the teeniest bit. Let’s go enjoy our picnic… _la mia bellissima ragazza._ ”

* * *

**Italian translation:**

_Andiamo!_ – Let’s go!

_mia feroce bellezza_ – my fierce beauty.

_la mia bellissima ragazza –_ my beautiful girlfriend.

**Geordie translations:**

Aye, dinna get your breeks in a bind – OK, don’t get your trousers in a knot.

aal reet – all right

a right canty surprise – a delightful, pleasant surprise

Aa dorsn’t say more, nee – I dare not say more, no

Sleekit bugger – smooth fellow

Atwix – between

Pelt away – hurry away

Stow ye stotin’, ye silly billy! – stop your bouncing, you goose [affectionate].


	81. Imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fingers crossed the Quidditch smuttenings do not disappoint!
> 
> Thanks always to my lovely beta reader and beloved friend @Recoveringjaddict5. All the stubborn mistakes are mine, of course.
> 
> Huge thank you to y'all for your continued readership, comments, support, and friendship. I'm so honoured and grateful.  
> 💛💛😊💛💛 VJ

__

_Saturday 28 March 2003: PM_

Clattering up the townhouse stairs, Hermione berates herself for not simply Apparating straight into their bedroom and thus saving herself a few minutes. _I blame Draco for messing with my logical brain… swooping around the field – sorry,_ pitch _– showing off his hard muscles and athletic prowess… giving me those hot silver eyes… goddamn_ winking _at me every chance he got… he knew exactly what seeing him in his Seeker outfit was doing to my skipping heartbeat and racing pulse… the smug, sexy git._

Her mildly aggrieved scowl morphs to a saucy grin as she considers her Plan of Attack for this afternoon’s activities. _First things first: get changed into my old Gryffindor uniform._ Rounding the open doorway, she grabs for the neat pile of clothing she’d arranged before they’d left for the Quidditch game this morning.

Once she has exchanged her jeans, jumper, and long-sleeved polo for the familiar grey pleated skirt, white shirt, and red and gold tie, Hermione adjusts her knee-high grey socks and shrugs into the caped outer robes. Just as she’s debating doing something more stylish with her high ponytail, the Floo sounds.

Clapping a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles, Hermione shuffles behind the bedroom door. She emits the tiniest of breathless squeaks as Draco’s voice booms from the floor below.

“Granger, where are you? Show yourself, _ma petite!_ ”. Something heavy ( _his broomstick?_ ) thuds to the floor, before his rapid footsteps sound on the staircase. A pause; Hermione can hear his erratic breathing as he lurks in the doorway.

“Last chance, my wicked little lioness. Not sticking around to offer your lover proper congratulations for catching the Snitch and winning the match… rudeness personified,” Draco grumbles, yet to advance further into their bedroom. He must notice her hastily-shed pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, given his next imperious announcement. “Ah – I assume you’re waiting to devotedly wash clean your Triumphant Warrior in the shower. Very good.” Another couple of thumps reverberate ( _his boots being discarded?_ ).

_Come on, come on… just a few more paces, big boy_ … Hermione tenses her muscles. Finally, his shadow advances as he progresses toward the bed.

“A-HA!” Hermione pounces, charging out from behind the ajar door to energetically (albeit clumsily) tackle Draco onto the wide bed… perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, given his pained gasp as he lands face-first into the pillows.

“Oh no – Malfoy, I’m so sorry, I was just trying to be playful…!” Hermione runs her frantic hands over his jodhpur-clad legs, moving up to his rippling back and arms as he chuckle-groans.

“I’m fine – actually, I’m impressed with your hitherto-unsuspected sporting abilities, darling,” Draco twists his head to look at her, a wry smile on his lips. “We didn’t cover tackling in our self-defence sessions… in hindsight, that was probably for the best.”

“I didn’t hit you _that_ hard, Oh Triumphant Warrior,” Hermione indignantly refutes. “Fine – I’ll take my vicious self downstairs, if you’re going to be like that– hey!” she squawks, as he yanks her down to lie beside him, his arms hard bands around her torso. She wriggles simply for form’s sake, her breathing hitching as the effect of his nearness inevitably plays havoc with her already overstimulated senses.

“Don’t you bloody dare, Granger – let me take in the full effect of my feral, violent girlfriend dressed in her old school uniform,” Draco growls, his still-gloved hands roving over her shoulders and arms. He gently pushes her onto her back before bracing himself on his elbows to loom above her, damp blond hair flopping into his eyes. “Sweet Salazar, Hermione – I’ve dreamed of this moment for decades… you’ve no idea.” His mouth snaps shut, his gunmetal-grey eyes glistening as they flick between her flushed face and heaving chest.

Hermione tenderly smooths the strands off his brow before she remembers her Plan. “No – wait, this isn’t right – I had this all thought out– ” she smacks at his strong forearms in a useless attempt to clear her way. “You need to lie back down and let me fulfil my – ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying this – Quidditch fantasies,” she mumbles.

“Your _what_ fantasies?” Draco teases. “Sorry, I can’t hear you…”

Hooking a leg around his waist, Hermione flips the cheeky wretch with a effortful grunt, swapping their positions. She clamps her knees around his waist, jack-knifing to sit astride him. “Bullshit – and stop saying it, I’m going to have to pick a new safe word.” Deliberately bumping her bum backward a few inches, Hermione stops when she nudges up against a certain stiff part of Draco’s anatomy.

“Ohhh… hello,” she purrs. “Draco Lucius Malfoy… is that a Snitch in your pants? Or something a bit longer… and harder?”.

“Something _much_ longer and harder, my dirty little Gryff,” Draco snickers, frowning as she slaps away his fingers from their creep toward her breasts.

“Uh-uh – you just lie back and enjoy the ride,” Hermione instructs, wagging her finger as pompously as it’s ever been wagged. “I’m going to tell you – in comprehensive, _filthy_ detail – how I felt, watching you zipping around the pitch in your gloriously well-fitted uniform… thank you for Transfiguring it back to Slytherin green and silver, by the way– ”

“Orange makes me appear bilious,” Draco murmurs, laughing as she tickles his armpits.

“Quiet! Yes, you’re going to lie back and enjoy the spoils of victory, _mon amour_ ,” Hermione speaks in her bossiest tones. “I intend to ride you like the fastest broomstick ever built, Seeker o’ mine. What do you say to that, huh?”.

In response, Draco nods so hard he sends one of the spare pillows falling to the floor. “Have at me, Hermione Jean Granger. With two conditions: don’t skip a single word of your prurient fantasy; and be aware I shall be enacting a fantasy or two of my own, when you’re done.”

Hermione plunges her mouth onto his, kissing him rather brutally. _Dear Venus, my scheme to torment Draco with a carefully controlled seduction is going to need a serious revamp…_ _I’m already wet enough for my knickers to require a flood warning._

Panting in some much-needed oxygen, she pushes up his jersey to greedily run her hands over his damp pectorals and abs. _Cripes, he’s so **hot** … like a classical Greek statue, every muscle painstakingly etched, his skin cool velvet over steel. Same colour as those marble masterpieces, too._ She grins at the thought.

“Where’s– where’s my narrative? I was promised a spoken fantasy,” Draco whinges. “You’re objectifying me, aren’t you, witch? Bloody marvellous. Keep going.”

“I certainly am… you’re so sexy, Draco. Do you remember one night, towards the end of Fifth Year, when I was on Prefect patrol and came upon you and Pansy in an alcove near the History of Magic classroom? You were still wearing your Seeker kit, you’d had a game that afternoon?” she prompts, her fingertips tracing slow circles just shy of his pale brown areolae.

“Maybe,” Draco hedges, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s so long ago…”

“Hmm. Liar. You were putting on quite a show, with Pansy; I now know it was staged for my benefit, Pansy told me how pissed off she was when she realized the same. No, it’s OK,” Hermione soothes, as Draco flinches. “I’m not judging you… well, I did at the time, but mostly… I wished that were me, sighing as you kissed your way up and down my neck… your fingers stroking my waist, and the underside of my breasts… plucking at my nipples.”

Staying silent, Draco doesn’t break their intense eye contact as he tugs off his leather gloves.

“Don’t toss them too far away – I want you to touch me while you’re wearing them, later,” Hermione orders.

“You have a glove kink?! Merlin, Granger,” Draco’s voice is hoarse, his pupils blown. “You can’t just throw that out there like that.”

“Hush! Do you want me to keep speaking?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Trailing her hands across Draco’s smooth chest once more, Hermione pinches his small, budded nipples. Hard. He bucks beneath her, eyes squeezing closed as his now-bare hands fist the white coverlet.

“As I was saying – before I was so impolitely interrupted – when I saw you horning up to Pansy that night, I did briefly wonder why you’d chosen the best-lit alcove in the entire corridor for your heavy petting session.” Hermione picks up her tale. “But I soon forgot that puzzling fact in favour of hiding around the corner. I watched you for a long while, Malfoy… and when I finally scurried away, and went back to my dorm, I drew the curtains of my bed tightly closed… I imagined it was me instead, writhing in your arms.”

She pauses, nerves temporarily overcoming her resolve.

“Go– go on. Please,” he croaks, bucking up against her in arrhythmic jerks. His hands sneak onto her thighs, snaking beneath the folds of her grey skirt to lightly squeeze upward.

“You can act out this next part, if you like,” Hermione grandly offers, lifting the skirt the rest of the way herself, until it is bunched at her waist.. She properly unties her robe, loosening her tie and undoing the buttons of her uniform shirt. His eyes near bug out of his head as she brazenly holds it open, showing him her nude, unfettered breasts. “Sit up a little, OK?”

Draco immediately complies. His fingers sidle up her legs, stopping at the elastic side seams.

“I put one hand on my breast while I slipped the other into my panties… yes, like that, harder–” Hermione nearly loses the thread of her monologue as his right hand eagerly cups her breast, while the fingers of his left hand dive beneath her undies, unerringly locating her pink pearl. _Heavens above, he plays me like a fiddler with a Stradivarius – every single time._ Hermione shudders a deep exhale in an effort to stay on track.

“I was wearing a basic white cotton pair, much like what I have on now… with a little ribbon bow on the front, but otherwise very plain… anyway, I remember I used my left hand – gods, I was already so slick, from spying on you – I rubbed my clit furiously, pretending they were your fingers, finding my little swollen nubbin and manipulating it just so– ”

She pauses, succumbing to the rapture of his skilled touch for a few delirious minutes, finally dislodging his deliciously exploring digits as she swings her legs to one side and scooches down to Draco’s mid thighs.

“Yes, yes – I’m listening, Granger!” Draco moans as she pushes away his grabby hands, preferring to torture him by ever-so-slowly unfastening the buttons of his fly herself. “ _Je ne supporte plus tes taquineries, ma petite sorcière sexy._ ”

“Yes, you _can_ take more of my teasing – and you will,” Hermione firmly decrees, scrabbling to pull down his dark breeches and briefs. Draco helpfully cants his hips to assist, gritting his teeth when her hands ‘accidentally’ graze his throbbing hardness.

“ _Je crois que tu l'as fait exprès_.” His whisper is barely audible.

“Of course I did that on purpose – right, that’s it, you’re on your last warning,” she grizzles.

Draco mimes zipping his lips; he holds out the imaginary key on his palm. Cocking her head, Hermione pretends to slip it into her skirt pocket, before turning her avid attention to his exposed groin. The turgid head of his reddened cock bobs twice under her regard, a fat teardrop of pre-come leaking from the tip. Swiping her index finger through it, Hermione sucks her finger clean, loving Draco’s reactive gasp and hitching hip thrust.

“Do you want to know what happened next? I bit my lip so hard – trying to stay quiet – that I had to heal the cut before I went down to breakfast the next morning, Malfoy.” Breath rasping, she inelegantly tips over as she wiggles out of the white cotton knickers, discarding them at the end of the bed. Swiftly righting herself, she plants her knees either side of Draco’s narrow hips, her bare bum brushing his sex.

“Hell’s bells – the contraception charms! Hurry–” they both chant the necessary spells. _It’s fine, I remembered in time. Nothing to worry about. Pfft._ Hermione dismisses any lingering doubts about timing and efficacy.

Draco whimpers as she uses her hand to guide his girthy length to her slick entrance, stopping just short of penetration. Their soul-bonded magic suddenly appears, bathing them in a deluge of shimmering light and power, instead of its usual slow manifestation.

“Our magic is impatient, too,” Draco risks muttering, lips quirking once before he prims them closed again. “You bit your lip…?”.

“Mmm – I closed my eyes, all I could see was your hands… your face… your dark, silvery eyes. You looked over once, when I was hiding around the corner, I could have sworn you spotted me – but you seemed impervious, I thought I must have been mistaken,” Hermione muses, all the while swinging her hips in slow, tormenting circles. “You did see me, didn’t you? Bad boy.”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds I may incriminate myself,” Draco raggedly bleats. “Please, Granger…” he lifts her skirt, groaning as he watches her slowly impaling herself on his thick, rigid staff.

“I was so excited – in a heady, guilty way – you’d been my adversary for years, but seeing you in your uniform, recklessly snogging in the corridor – well, I couldn’t be blamed for picturing you ravishing _me_ after a hard Quidditch match, could I?! No, of course not.” Sliding down, she exhales until Draco is entirely buried in her sweet heat, his fine blond hairs tickling her sensitive skin.

“ _Ohmigod_ … Don’t move, I want to set the pace,” Hermione commands, using her inner muscles to experimentally squeeze and release. Sorcerous sparks zing to and fro… _much like the players in the air this morning_ , Hermione thinks, before all her attention re-centres on driving her boyfriend (and herself) mad with rampaging desire.

“ _Tu me tues, chérie_ ,” Draco growls, thumping his head against the pillow in flagrant frustration. His pale hands grip her hips, keeping her grey skirt gathered high. “Tell me– tell me more. Please.”

“Oh, do you want to hear me say I fingered myself to the best orgasm of my life, that night? Well… I did… I came so hard, I was worried I was having a heart attack, Malfoy. It took me a good ten minutes before I ceased twitching, and I had to eventually get up and change my nightie – and my ruined knickers, of course.” She leans down, pressing her hands onto his damp chest as she increases her tempo. The sound of their slippery bodies merging is loud in the quiet room.

Hermione abandons the power of speech as she gives in to her savage need to ride Draco, hard. She grinds up and down, grunting lewdly as he babbles incoherently and meets her thrust for thrust. She digs her nails into his marble skin, clawing as she finds exactly the right rhythm and position to hurtle her closer to peak.

Their magic particles crash into each other, copying their volatile movements… spinning out of control. Hermione moans as she slams down even harder, her world narrowed down to the bliss of shamelessly taking her pleasure from the writhing wizard beneath her.

_Slap. Slap. Slap._ She pushes up and down, a tiny part of her dazed brain worried by the red marks she is leaving on Draco’s skin. “Draco – is this OK? Don’t– don’t want to hurt you,” she gasps, relieved when he vigorously shakes his head.

“This is incredible– you’re incredible – _J’expirerai si tu arrêtes maintenant_ ,” he pants. “Harder.”

_You heard the man._ Hermione all but body-slams into him, clenching her inner muscles as her climax screams down every nerve ending. Her vision whites out, her head lolling as she slumps onto Draco, every limb shaking and convulsing. He keeps shuttling in and out of her pleasure-addled body, his hands supporting her sprawled form as she mumbles his name in a prayer-like chant.

“Hermione. Look at me, _ma petite_ ,” he softly asks, stroking her perspiration-wet hair away from her face, gentling his thrusts. “Can you go again?”.

“Mmmhmm… yes… you feel so wonderful, Draco…” She opens her joy-blinded whiskey eyes as he carefully reverses their positions, before sliding his heavy manhood back inside her.

Mellowed and dazed, Hermione watches Draco watch her. He is far gentler than she was, slowly tunnelling into her hot, wet core. Every tender plunge bestows a small aftershock, making her languidly squirm.

She fumbles at his jersey, eventually managing to drag it over his head. He chuckles as it inevitably gets stuck at his elbows.

“Here – I’ll just–” Draco switches his weight from one hand to the other to free himself of the thick garment. “Better?”

Draping her arms around his neck, Hermione nods drowsily. “Much. Think you can make me come again?” she challenges, leaving one hand pressed to his shoulder, while the other seeks out her clit. “This was how I touched myself, that night,” she slyly winks.

“Minx. Of course you’ll come again,” Draco arrogantly declares. “Show me, Hermione.”

Taking him at his word, she delves two fingers inside her throbbing channel, diligently coating them in her liquid heat. “You mean… show you this?” she holds up the dripping digits, her naughty giggle cut short as he bends down to suck them clean.

“Delicious,” he breathes. His hips snap a little faster. “ _Frotte ta douce chaton, c’est ma bonne fille_. I dreamed of you like this, Hermione – beautifully exhausted, all fucked out, your big brown eyes almost black as you lie beneath me. I’ll never have enough of you, do you understand?”.

**_I’ll never have enough of you, either... never._ **

**_I love you so… my precious Hermione._ **

**_I love you too, my darling Draco._ **

Gathering together her final reserves of strength, Hermione winds her trembling, sock-clad legs around his flexing buttocks, smiling as she feels him shudder and tense. Her fingertips continue their steady manipulation of her little button.

“Come for me, Malfoy,” she huskily encourages. “I’m close.”

Picking up his pace, Draco lowers his head to kiss her deeply, his impassioned groans muffled into her mouth. Feeling his paroxysmal release, Hermione arches her back as his wild orgasm triggers her second, her legs vise-like around his waist. Their metaphysical sorcery rains down on their quivering bodies, tiny pinpricks of warmth that add a special layer to the amazing experience.

Moments pass, each coming down from their rapturous highs. Hugging Draco tightly, Hermione lazily rolls them to the side, their bodies yet intimately joined.

“ _Ma petite?_ ”

“Yes, _mon amour?_ ”

“I’ve decided it’s just as well that we weren’t together, at Hogwarts.”

“Really? Whyever not?”

“Well… given how you’ve just completely annihilated me, body and soul – in a purely heavenly, insanely euphoric way, of course! – I wouldn’t have been able to think or do anything unrelated to making love with you, twenty-four/seven.”

“No doubt you would have tried to use that as an excuse for your inability to best me scholastically, I suppose.”

“You wound me with your cynical perspicacity, Hermione.”

Snuggling her head into the crook of Draco’s neck, Hermione nuzzles his jaw. 

“Never repeat this, Draco – but I think I’m beginning to quite enjoy Quidditch, as it turns out.”

Laughing together, they swap soft, affectionate smooches, occasionally trailing their fingers through their bonded magical spots and whorls, to make pretty new patterns.

_Draco might be right about us not surviving each other at school… anyway, I won’t ever regret our different paths. They led us here, to each other… which is EXACTLY where I want to be._

Threading her hand through Draco’s silky argentine hair, Hermione nods contentedly to herself.

* * *

_Buggeration – we’ve missed the game._ Theo scowls as he looks up into the stands. Only a dozen or so spectators remain. _I place the blame for our tardiness squarely on Wirey’s stiff shoulders. Squabbling, persnickety little nitwit. He’s really tried my patience, this week past. It’s just as well I love him dearly._

_Oh, well. I hope Blaise won’t be too aggrieved._ He beckons Wireceaster to accompany him, swivelling on his heel to depart.

“Theo! I wondered when you’d show up!” Zabini bundles him into a lung-constricting hug before Theo can dodge out of his way. “What did you think of the match, buddy?”.

Theo weakly smiles, evading the question to acknowledge the woman standing beside his old friend. “Hello, Gus.”

“Hi, Theo.”

His eyes widen as Blaise proudly weaves their fingers together. “Gussie is my _girlfriend_ now, Theo. It’s true, she said it out loud not five minutes ago,” he stresses, wrapping the Auror in a loose hug. “And no, she wasn’t under duress,” he pre-empts Theo’s next teasing query.

“Cut it out, Blaise,” Gus mutters, though her blithe grin shows she is just as happy about the new proclaimed relationship as the effervescent Slytherin.

“Congratulations, guys,” Theo sincerely responds. “I’m thrilled for you both.”

“Not as thrilled as I am, mate! Hullo, Wirey,” Blaise waves at the cranky elf. “So – did you enjoy the game? Gussie whipped me six ways to Sunday, of course,” he laughs, not seeming at all bothered. “She’s a killer Beater, yeah?”.

“Uh – I’m sorry, Blaise; I just got here. We were delayed… a domestic issue, nothing serious,” Theo confesses to his tardiness.

“A domestic issue? Are you and Wirey alright?” Blaise shifts from boisterous to concerned in a split second. “More booby traps in Nott Manor? I thought you rid yourself of the last of them a while back?”.

“No, we’re fine, Blaise. Actually, I’m going to sell the place, as soon as I can: lock, stock, and stinking barrel. I’ve… hired an assistant, to sort and inventory the entire contents of the house,” Theo reluctantly explains. “I should have gotten rid of the fell heap years ago.”

“An assistant? Pray tell, _amico mio_.” Of course Blaise homes in on the one point Theo doesn’t wish to elaborate. _He’s more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for._

“It’s unimportant – anyway, I do apologize for being so late. Who won? Did you have fun?”.

“No worries – Draco snatched the Snitch – or should that be, snitched the Snitch? Won us the game and saved me from having rotten tomatoes pelted at my head, I played like a busted arsehole,” Blaise cheerily admits. He raises Gus’s hand to his lips. “Doesn’t matter – the only prize I’m truly interested in is standing right here.”

“Do you practise these lines in your decadent bubble baths, or memorize them off Christmas crackers?” Gus scoffs, blushing a little. “Leave it out, Zabini.”

“Gussie, how did you know I take long bubble baths?” Blaise is genuinely astonished. “I speak from my heart, _mia bella guerriera_.” His mercurial personality jumps again. “Theo, Wirey – come join us for a picnic lunch, the ladies are setting it up on the green,” he waves to the picturesque expanse of field behind the stadium. “No backing out, you owe me for missing my less-than-spectacular sporting display. Hurry up,” he herds Theo and Wirey like recalcitrant sheep.

“Is Signorina Gelsomina present?” Wirey pipes up, tugging at his starched black waistcoat as he tries to hightail it. “Herr Wireceaster has duties awaiting him back at Nott Manor–”

“She sure is – now’s the perfect opportunity for you to offer your apologies for that nutty stunt you pulled with the Monopoly board at the bruncheon, Wirey,” Blaise prods him forward. “Gird your loins – no, wait, I’m not one hundred percent sure that doesn’t mean something gross – um, find your Teutonic fortitude and swagger forth, cap in hand and humility at the ready, Wireman. Come on, I’m starving!”.

Swept along by the Zabini juggernaut, Theo catches Gus’s eye; they smirk in unison as a clearly unhappy Wirey stomps in front.

_At least we’re out of the house, and away from the Battle Royale that’s been raging there since Tuesday,_ Theo shrugs, capitulating gracefully. _But damn it, if Wirey begins bickering with Gelsy – I swear I’m going to start copying Harry and pulling out my hair._

* * *

“Begox, young Blaise – let the lass be, our Gus disn’t hev a chance of a bite of belly-timmer, if ye keep bussing her!” Mrs Green scolds, clipping away Blaise from his girlfriend with a firm, knobby hand.

From the context, Theo assumes Blaise’s constant kisses to Gus’s face, hands, neck – even her elbow, at one point – have caused Mrs Green’s outburst. He hides his grin at Blaise’s crestfallen expression by chomping into another sandwich triangle.

“These are delicious, Gelsy. Wouldn’t you agree, Wirey?” he unsubtly exhorts his sullen house elf. The stubborn imp’s weak idea of an apology left much to be desired, when they’d initially sat down on the conjured picnic blankets and soft cushions (Wirey had mumbled a sole insincere “Sorry” before scuttling away) . Mrs Green is the only member of the party not seated on the blanket; the older woman is comfortably perched in a collapsible Muggle camping chair that Gus had carried over and set up.

“Wireceaster agrees that Signorina Gelsomina’s culinary skills are a credit to her, indeed,” he gruffly parrots. “Master Zabini is a lucky wizard…”

_Uh-oh, I don’t care for that pause,_ Theo worries.

“…to have survived her sharp tongue,” the foolish elf finishes, twirling his waxed moustache as he puffs out his scraggy chest and picks up another mini pork and chorizo pie, clearly proud of his withering remark.

Gelsy stares coldly at him, flicking her fingers to zoom the pie back into the hamper. The wicker lid snaps closed with a forceful whump.

“Signorina Gelsomina refuses to feed ingrates; let Herr Wireceaster’s waspish tongue be fortified with his own bile,” she replies. “Though acidic, tis yet sweeter than anything he has ever spoken aloud. _Cazzone_.”

“What does that mean, Gelsy?” Tavi shuffles forward, carefully wrapping her in a hug and pressing together their cheeks. The little girl frowns at Wirey. “You’re being awfully mean to my friend, Mr Wirey – you should say sorry properly. Bullies aren’t welcome at our table.”

“Aye, the kidda hez the right of it, ye weeny goniel. Divvent be glowering and starting a fratch wiv our Gelsy. Sorry ye’ll say, or off ye’ll go,” Mrs Green lambastes.

Wirey turns his bemused face to Theo, evidently unable to decipher Nella’s Geordie-isms.

Blaise jumps in to translate. “Mrs Green just told you to apologize or leave, Wirey. I won’t stand for you insulting my family, either – think carefully, before you wholly ostracize yourself,” he sternly warns.

Everyone glares at the disconsolate sprite. Theo breathes easier when Wirey finally bows his head to quietly say, “Herr Wireceaster begs Signorina Gelsomina’s gracious pardon; for his rash, unkind words today… and his historical owed apology for dishonouring his invitation for the Signorina to join him for a dinner date, some years past. _Ich bin nicht zuversichtlich_ – Wirey is… not confident, _und_ cowardly. He is deeply sorry.”

Black eyes moist, Wirey avoids looking at anyone as he starts to back away.

“Gelsy accepts Wirey’s apologies. Perhaps… perhaps Gelsy’s injured pride overly directed her previously uncharitable behaviours,” she allows. “ _Il perdono è una benedizione_ : forgiveness is a blessing.”

Tavi delightedly claps together her hands as Gelsy rummages through the wicker basket, selecting a beautifully iced chocolate cupcake; she holds it out to an astounded Wirey. “Peace offering?”.

“Signorina Gelsomina is most kind – most kind,” he mops at his brow with a comically large black handkerchief, before reverently accepting the dessert. “An undeserving Wirey gives his humbled and spirited thanks. _Vielen Dank!_ ” He precariously holds his sweeping bow for at least half a minute, until Theo grabs the duffer and plonks him down beside him again.

“Eat your cupcake and settle down, please.” _Never a dull moment with this lot_. A small smile twists his lips as he watches Tavi turning her own cupcake upside down to demonstrate “how to save the best bit for last”.

Mrs Green’s voice at his ear startles him from his brief reverie. “Ye wee man’s got a thumpin’ tash, aye?” she points to Wirey’s (now chocolate-smeared) moustache. “He’s far ower much te say for hissell, Aa think at first – and nobbut dour gab, te beyut… but he’s aal reet. Sweet on yon lass, aye?”.

“Gelsy?” Theo whispers. “Wirey’s been gone on her for years – but he tripped himself up quite badly there, I’m afraid.”

“Aye. Still, nowt so queer as folk… little folk, included,” Mrs Green pronounces. “That’s a Yorkie saying, ye ken. Aa do like to learn new languages. How do ye say, ‘a cup of tea’d be lovely’, in German, young Theo?”.

“ _Eine Tasse Tee wäre schön_ ,” he automatically replies, before realizing it is a hint for a fresh mug.

Smiling, Theo magicks the large thermos and fixings over to Nella’s chair. He sets about preparing her cuppa as she affectionately pats his hand.

Wirey has wriggled closer to Tavi and Gelsy; he diffidently asks about the Quidditch game, eyes goggling as Tavi re-enacts the moment Draco “snitched the Snitch” and won the match.

“It was so exciting – I mean, I’m sorry for Gus because her team lost in the end – they were the Enforcers, because they’re all Aurors, do you get it, Mr Wirey? – but I knew Gus wouldn’t mind, because she played so well, much better than Mr Blaise,” Tavi candidly burbles.

She rises up on her knees, pretending to hunker down on a broomstick. “So Mr Harry saw the Snitch first, but Mr Draco was shadowing him the whole time, and they both dived for it – Tricky was a bit scared, because the ground was coming up fast, _really_ fast – but Mrs Green said they knew what they were about and not to worry – anyway, Mr Harry’s glasses fell off and we all screamed, Miss Pansy screamed the loudest and she pulled out her wand, I guess she was going to use the ‘Arresto Momentum’ spell to stop Mr Harry from falling – oh, and Miss Hermione had her wand out, too – but Mr Harry was fine, he scooped up his glasses and went to grab for the Snitch but Mr Draco already had it and that was it, game over, you snooze – you lose. Gus says that a lot,” Tavi importantly informs. “So the Renegades won! I think they should have stuck to wearing proper red and green team colours, though. Mac and Ruibby were disappointed because _they_ wore scarlet and emerald robes especially, to show their ‘bipartisan’ support. Mrs Green said that means they were too chicken to pick a side, but I think she was joking.”

“The Macdolas was here?” Wirey stiffens.

“Yep – he and Ruibby went under the stands at half-time, I asked Miss Hermione why and she looked surprised because I don’t think she’d noticed – but then she quickly told me they had something important to discuss. They might still be there, Miss Hermione took off like an Olympic sprinter as soon as Mr Draco held up the Snitch – he gave her a very strange look, actually,” Tavi nods. “Do you want to go find them, Mr Wirey? We’ve plenty of food left over.”

“ _Nein!_ Eh – Herr Wireceaster has reached his limit of pax – peace – for one day,” he grimaces. “Signorina Gelsomina… did you enjoy the match?” he shyly addresses his honey-eyed counterpart.

Satisfied that his companions are now getting along famously, Theo relaxes back against the fattened cushions. Expecting to feel a little saddened at the sight of Blaise sneaking in to kiss Gus at every opportunity, he is pleased to realize he is no longer envious of his friends’ abject joy.

_Is it because I’ve finally decided to move on from my toxic environs, and in doing so, my poisoned past? Or it is being mature enough to realize that I don’t need a partner, to be worthy, and complete? Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad I decided to come out, today._

Pouring himself his own mug of fragrant tea, he clinks it against Mrs Green’s.

“Here’s to friends.”

“Aye… and family, lad.”

* * *

**French translations:**

_Je ne supporte plus tes taquineries, ma petite sorcière sexy_ – I can't take much more of your teasing, my sexy little witch.

_Je crois que tu l'as fait exprès_ – I believe you did that on purpose.

_Tu me tues, chérie_ – You’re killing me, honey.

_J’expirerai si tu arrêtes maintenant_ – I’ll expire if you stop now _._

_Frotte ta douce chaton, c’est ma bonne fille –_ Rub your sweet pussy, that’s my good girl.

**Italian translations:**

_Amico mio_ – my friend.

_Cazzone_ – prick.

**Geordie translations:**

Begox, young Blaise – let the lass be, our Gus disn’t hev a chance of a bite of belly-timmer, if ye keep bussing her! – By God, young Blaise – leave the woman alone, Gus doesn’t have a chance to eat any food if you keep kissing her!

Aye, the kidda hez the right of it, ye weeny goniel. Divvent be glowering and starting a fratch wiv our Gelsy – Yes, the child is right, you little chump. Don’t be frowning and starting a row with Gelsy.

Ye wee man’s got a thumpin’ tash, aye? – Your little man has a big, impressive moustache, hasn’t he?

He’s far ower much te say for hissell, Aa think at first – and nobbut dour gab, te beyut… but he’s aal reet. Sweet on yon lass, aye? – He has far too much to say for himself, I think at first – and nothing but sour, empty talk, to boot… but he’s all right. He’s keen on the girl, hmm?


	82. Recreation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shout out and dedication to @motherbearof3 and @Megand2017 for their wonderful stories, which inspired elements of this chapter: Harry and Pansy's joyflight, and Sirius's 70s slang, respectively. Thank you very much! 🧡😊🧡
> 
> This chapter features Hansy, then Dramione and friends. I'm excited for what's planned next for Pansy and Harry - it might take me a little longer to write, I want to do it justice.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading.  
> Wishing you all health and happiness.  
> xoxo VJ

__

_Saturday 28 March 2003: PM_

“Are you comfortable back there, love?” Harry slows his broomstick a little, risking a quick shoulder-check on the brunette witch snugged in behind him. Pansy temporarily loosens her strong grip around his midriff to make a thumbs-up gesture with her right hand.

“Absolutely, Duckie. This is so much fun!” she yells into his ear. “Faster, please?”.

Sighing his pleasure into the wind buffeting his face, Harry readily accedes to his girlfriend’s enthusiastic request. _Taking her home on my broom after the Quidditch match was a sudden impulse – but certainly the best idea I’ve had all day._ Keeping his strict control on the concentrated magic needed to fly, Harry takes a few moments to simply appreciate the joy of having Pansy wrapped around him, her cheek and soft breasts pressed to his upper back, arms bracketing his torso, and her legs tightly tucked to the outside of his thighs.

 _I guess this was what Sirius was talking about, when he was fondly reminiscing about the thrill of ‘doubling birds’ on the back of his flying motorcycle,_ Harry grins to himself. _Not that I’d ever describe Pansy as a ‘bird’ – nope, no sexist 70s slang from me._ Pansy makes a slight adjustment, her body warmth seeping deliciously through his cape and jersey. Harry’s breath hitches, his ever-present arousal kicking up another notch or four.

“We’re almost at your apartment – I’ll start the descent in a few minutes, OK? We’ll land on the roof, the Disillusionment Charm is still good,” Harry shouts. Her small nod against his spine indicates she’s heard him.

Though he’s reluctant to bring their joyride to an end, Harry is at least partially glad when his feet hit the ground – _well, the roof_ – to dismount. Having Pansy nestled so close has left him aching… slightly painfully, and rather obviously. He swiftly rearranges his cape to cover his codpiece area before he checks on Pansy. Her long, straight ebony hair has partially escaped the confines of the patterned grey and white silk scarf she’d re-purposed as a head covering, and her cheeks are flushed and smiling. The blotchy cloud cover shifts to allow a thin beam of radiant sunlight to illuminate her from her head to her toes, as though paying homage to her vitality and effervescent charm.

 _Gods, she’s gorgeous._ Harry’s answering grin falters a little as his heart clutches like a missed gear change. He is relieved when Pansy doesn’t immediately pick up on his sobered mood; she flings herself at him, hugging him affectionately.

“Harry, that was marvellous, I’ve never flown like that before,” she gushes, pulling back to look in his eyes. “I guess it’s not new to you, though; you and Ginny must have zipped around together quite a bit.” She bites her lip, face flushing, as he blinks in surprise.

“Oh, shit– I mean, sorry, it’s poor form to reference one’s exes, isn’t it?” Pansy flaps a hand in frustration, looking down at her booted feet and fiddling with the zipper of her short black leather jacket. “Ignore me. I blame the wind whizzing through my ears and leaking into the sensitivity sector of my brain,” she sighs.

“Hey,” Harry gathers her bare hands in his gloved ones, carefully enclosing them within the brown leather. “I was just surprised, that’s all. Of course you can ask me about Ginny. If I don’t feel comfortable answering, I’ll simply say as much… alright, love?”. He ducks his head a little, chucking her downcast chin with a careful fingertip. “Really.”

Pansy stares at him as the silence stretches. A tremulous smile reforms on her glossy pink lips as she accepts his sincerity. “OK.”

“I’ve never doubled on a broom before – not with a girlfriend, anyway,” Harry coughs as he remembers those terrifying moments in the Room of Requirement, when he snatched up Draco from certain, fiery death. _Don’t think about that right now – focus on Pansy_. He clears his throat.

“Ginny and I could never agree as to who would take point on a broomstick… and in our relationship, too,” Harry quietly continues. “We bickered a lot… we made each other unhappy, without ever meaning to.”

“Did you love her?” Pansy slaps a hand over her mouth, clearly horrified at her blunt query.

Harry pauses. “I did love Ginny. She was my first love… but we didn’t fit well together, Pansy. Sometimes, I think that the War – all that we went through, it forced a lot of relationships too far, too quickly. I know I felt a sense of urgency, a blinding desire to immediately squeeze _everything_ into my life, even though I knew Voldemort was gone for good. Ginny and I moved in together practically straightaway… in hindsight, we weren’t ready.”

“Oh. That… makes sense,” Pansy slowly replies. In an uncharacteristically timorous voice, she asks, “Do you think that maybe, in the future, you might… reconnect?”.

The nerves and doubt in her tone are impossible to miss. Harry vigorously shakes his head. “No. Look at me, love. Ginny is my past. I hope she’ll always be in my life – as a dear friend, now that we’re over our break-up… it got a bit hairy there for a while, but we’re good, now. I’m not holding out hope we’ll find our way to each other, in the years to come; the reasons why we parted were valid, and they aren’t surmountable. I don’t love her like that, not anymore.”

Voice cracking a little, Harry doggedly finishes. “The only witch I want in my future is you, Pansy Parkinson.”

Her only reaction to his emphatic avowal is a flurry of agitated blinks. _Oh, fantastic – I’ve well and truly rushed her._ Harry considers whether leaping off the side of the roof on his broom to extricate himself from his raging embarrassment is an actual option. _I could always send an owl once I get home, by way of apology–_

“Mallory.”

“I beg your pardon?” His puzzlement is sincere, though his spirits markedly rise as he sees the shy smile accompanying her pronouncement.

“My full name is Pansy _Mallory_ Parkinson,” she states. “I thought you should know that… seeing as how you’re seemingly intent on hanging around.”

 _Thank fudgesicles._ Harry wastes no time building on Pansy’s acceptance of his bumbling little speech. Sliding his hands around her small waist, he bends to capture her pliant mouth with his own, the blood singing in his veins. Elation infuses extra spice into his impassioned kiss. _I’d hang from the ruddy ceiling by my toes if it means spending more time with her._

She breaks away to fervently assert, “Harry – you’re the only wizard I want in my future, too… you wonderful, romantic twerp.”

“Twerp?” Harry nips kisses to her earlobes, loving the sound of her high-pitched giggles as he licks near her ear canal. “How unkind of you, Pansy Mallory Parkinson.” He easily holds her wriggly body in place as she huffs out more laughter.

“Stop! You’re much naughtier than I would have believed, you know.” She retaliates by playfully biting at his lower lip. “I like it.”

“Do you know what I like? You… and I _especially_ like you in those tight black jeans,” Harry confesses. “You’ve quite the sexy little arse on you, Pansy. Sorry – I’ve said too much again, haven’t I?” he frowns, doubt creeping back.

“Pfft – you’ve not said enough, you mean! So, you like my outfit?” Pansy boldly grabs his bum, chortling as he gasps. “I hoped you’d find it… titillating.”

“Too bloody right I do,” Harry mutters, his passion-fuzzed brain finally clearing long enough to aggravatingly recall his grand plans for the evening. Unwilling to let go of Pansy just yet, he shuffles back half a foot.

“Love, I brought us back to your place because I wanted to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight, at that new gastro pub that’s just opened up, in Diagon Alley – The Startled Sasquatch? And, um, it’s not super fancy or anything – what you’re wearing now is lovely, of course – but I thought you might like to dress up, for a proper date. With me. Dressed up. I mean, I’ll dress up. For dinner. At the pub.” Harry cringes at how gauche he sounds. _Real smooth, Potter. Hopeless._

“The Startled Sasquatch?” Pansy’s brow briefly furrows, before she slips him a pert wink. “I’d love that, Harry.” She swings their joined hands by their sides in delight. “I’ve the perfect dress – it came into the boutique just yesterday, and I set it aside for myself immediately – don’t tell my manager Mayumi though, she’s forever scolding me for hogging up the best stock,” she confesses.

“Brilliant. Come on, I’ll see you downstairs, then I’ll Floo back home and get myself prettied up,” Harry grins, leaving his hand on the small of her back as he guides her to the exit door. Pansy stops just as he begins to turn the handle.

“Harry? I just realized – I never properly congratulated you, for how well you played today,” she beams. “I was too busy giving you a tongue-lashing for that stunt you pulled, diving for the Snitch and scaring me witless! But you were great – you were extraordinary out there.”

“Thank you, love,” he lightly bops her nose, laughing as she wrinkles it. “That reminds me… did I happen to hear a certain witch bellowing out ‘DUCKIE’ at the top of her lungs, and belting out some rather rabid cheers? Something along the lines of, ‘Show no mercy’, and ‘Harry Potter eats Bludgers for breakfast’? Hmm?”.

“Oh, that – Hermione has a really strong set of lungs on her, doesn’t she?” Pansy shamelessly fibs. “A disgraceful performance by her, really.”

Harry tips back his head to laugh, relishing their cheerful banter, before he opens the door and gestures for Pansy to precede him down the narrow stairwell. “After you, sweetheart.”

He ensures she is holding securely to the metal railing before he permits himself a single brazen pinch of her delightful rump, snorting his merriment as she immediately waggles her butt to ‘turn the other cheek’.

_Such a sassy, funny, beautiful woman… I can’t wait to take her on our first proper date._

Harry cheerily clunks down the staircase behind her, grinning like a leprechaun.

* * *

“Not the grey, Master Potter; Kreacher advises that jacket is most certainly not fit for dining out with one’s pretty paramour.” Kreacher rolls his eyes as though Harry has just turned up to attend a royal banquet, sans trousers. Boadie yawns from her perch atop the table, seeming to nod in agreement as she rests her little jet head back upon her fluffy paws.

“What’s wrong with it? I like this jacket,” Harry pouts. “It’s comfortable, and it’s clean.”

“It be _hideous_ ,” Kreacher sternly decrees. “Master Potter does not wish to appear scruffy tonight, surely? Kreacher recommends the crisp blue knitted herringbone two-button sports coat.” With a rapid sequence of pops, he Disapparates and re-Apparates back into the kitchen, the coat now in his hands. He waves his fingers impatiently.

“Alright, hold your Hippogriffs,” Harry grumbles, shrugging out of the ‘scruffy’ grey jacket. He folds it onto the back of the nearest chair. Kreacher hands him the coat, a smirk playing around his gnomish mouth.

“Master Potter does not wish to present Mistress Pansy with flowers, for their first official public date?” he hints.

“Oh, sh– sugar plum fairies, I clean forgot!” Harry thumps his thigh with a closed fist, glancing wildly at the old clock on the wall. _I’m due at Pansy’s in five minutes – there’s no way I can make a quick detour to a florist in time. I wonder if she’ll mind if I Transfigure her a bunch, instead?_ He eyes the small stack of newspapers on the far end of the table. _That’ll do, in a pinch… Cripes, I really should have paid more attention in Charms class…_

Kreacher snaps his fingers; a stunning bouquet of bluish-purple irises levitate before him. “Irises symbolize hope, Master Potter. Kreacher believes Mistress Parkinson will understand the significance.” He looks almost jolly as strokes Boadie’s arched spine with a long, gnarled finger.

For a crazy moment, Harry contemplates folding Kreacher into a grateful hug, before his common sense activates. _He’d likely faint from the shock, I reckon._ He settles for a huge grin and a gentle pat on Kreacher’s bony shoulder.

“Thank you, Kreacher – you’ve outdone yourself, once again. Erm… buy yourself a treat, whatever you like,” Harry waffles.

Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, Kreacher looks pointedly at the wall clock.

“Right, I’m off.”

“Give Mistress Pansy my regards, Master Potter. Kreacher counsels to not order anything you cannot pronounce.”

 _Advice to live by, indeed._ Harry races for the Floo, taking care to not bruise the sweet-smelling blossoms in his hand.

* * *

“Have I told you how absolutely stunning you look in that dress, love?” Harry whispers in her ear as they walk to their reserved table up the back of the restaurant ( _sorry, gastro pub_ ). “I’m very pleased you hid it from Mayumi’s judgey eyes, _ma belle petite amie_.”

“Harry James Potter – you speak French?!” Her astonished hiss attracts the attention of a portly older couple in the corner. Pansy decides against blowing them a raspberry. _Let them stare, they look like excitement hasn’t knocked on their front door for decades._ She bares her teeth in an alarming smile, putting on an extra hip sway, her midi-length floral jersey wrap dress (in pinks, blues, and purples) swishing a little.

“Oh, I’m picking up a few choice phrases,” Harry confidently responds. “How’s my accent?” he preens.

“Appalling – but I appreciate the sentiment very much,” she giggles. “If I’m your ‘beautiful girlfriend’, you’re definitely ‘ _mon beau petit ami’_ … my handsome boyfriend,” she repeats for his benefit. “Your gorgeous jacket matches some of the flowers on my dress, you realize. Are we going to be one of those cutesy couples that dress alike, Harry?” she simpers.

She manages to keep a straight face as he covers his instinctive baulk with a weak smile.

“Uh… sure? No, look, Kreacher actually picked out this coat, my own choice was apparently unacceptably shabby,” Harry admits, making them both laugh. Having reached their table, Harry solicitously pulls out her chair.

Pansy resists the urge to rub her cheek against Harry’s hand, as his fingers tuck a tumbled dark lock back behind her ear. _I haven’t been on a date like this in years – is it any wonder I’m feeling a bit gooey and goofy? Stuff it, Harry doesn’t care how silly I am._

She covertly watches as he sits down and does his best to politely deter their star-struck waiter. _Poor Harry… he’s clearly uncomfortable with the excessive attention, but he’s too nice to shut it down. Good thing I don’t share his reservations._

“May I bring you anything else, Mr Potter? Some aperitifs, perhaps? Complimentary, of course… I know you must be tired of people asking for your autograph, but I really would love it if you’d sign a menu for me–”

“Thank you, we’ll let you know when we’re ready to order. Perhaps you could revisit your autograph request, _after_ we’ve enjoyed our meal. In private. Without interruptions. I’ll take a Campari cocktail, please. Harry?” Pansy smiles beatifically at the sheepish young man.

“Just a Butterbeer, thanks.”

Bowing low, their chastened waiter flees the scene.

Harry immediately reaches for her hand across the table, stroking his thumb across her palm as he stares admiringly at her. “I really need to start taking lessons in firm diplomacy from you, Pansy; you handled that guy masterfully. Thank you.”

Pansy feels like purring beneath his affectionate caress. She adopts an air of casual insouciance to mask her vulnerability. “First, second, and third lesson: learn to say ‘No’. Fourth lesson: don’t give any excuses. Fifth lesson: brook no opposition.”

Harry chuckles. “Are you a life coach, too? I doubt there’s little you couldn’t do, once you decided you were going to do it. That’s a sincere compliment,” he assures.

“Not a life coach, just a Determined Bitch,” she grins back. “It’s usually a slur aimed at strong women, but I’m owning it, now.”

Harry sends her a look she can’t quite define. _Admiration… awe… pride… and something else_ ; something passionate and profound that has her pulling away her hand to fumble at her water glass, such is his intensity. It takes her a few moments to speak over the emotional lump in her throat, as she blindly traces her finger down the bill of fare.

“What looks good, do you think? Have you been here before?”.

“No, Ron recommended– sorry,” Harry gulps at his own tumbler. “The steaks are supposed to be excellent.”

Looking up from beneath her lashes, Pansy slowly replies, “You can talk about Ronald, Harry. I’m not upset, truly. You must miss him… he’s your best friend.”

Smoothing out his linen napkin onto his lap, Harry mumbles, “Yeah… I miss the big lug. I meant what I said – we need time apart – but I worry about him. He and Ginny moved into Hermione’s old flat today, Hermione told me about it when we had morning tea together yesterday.” He sighs, sadness darkening his bright emerald eyes.

“Mmm, I know. He’ll be alright, Duckie. This will be good for him, and I have every confidence Ron is on the right path to sorting out his issues. And Ginny will be a great source of support for him. How will they fit in Hermione’s one-bedroom apartment, though?” Pansy curiously enquires.

“There’s a tiny boxroom beside the bathroom, it will just about fit a single bed and a hanging rack for Ron’s clothes. Fortunately, he doesn’t have a lot of stuff,” Harry divulges. “The bigger question is, where will Hermione store all the crap she had in there? Don’t tell her I said this… but she’s something of a pack rat, Pansy. She’s never met a book she didn’t hoard.”

“Ha – and Draco verges on obsessive-compulsive minimalism… they’re going to have some interesting bumps trying to align those particular core values,” Pansy sniggers.

Their waiter returns with their drinks, shooting Pansy a scared look before setting down her vodka-and-bitters cocktail. He flees as soon as Harry’s Butterbeer is on the table.

“Here’s to Hermione and Draco, and their new careers,” Pansy proposes a toast.

“May I never walk in on their blatant bawdiness ever again!” Harry feelingly adds, clinking their goblets. “Ditto for not witnessing their randy elves’ shenanigans. My poor, shocked eyes…”

“Oh, ‘MacRu’ snuck beneath the bleachers at your match – Hermione didn’t even notice until Tavi pointed it out,” Pansy guffaws. “They’re adorable, but I agree, it’s a tad confronting.”

“Damned right it is,” Harry gruffly agrees. “I only want to think about you in my bed, not be besieged with proof of every other horny bastard getting it on– oh, hell,” he gasps. “I mean – I’m not thinking about you in my bed – OK, I am – but you know, _respectfully_ , no expectations, definitely no pressure… forget it, I’ll be under the table for the rest of the night–” he actually slithers out of his seat and down onto his knees, his mortification evident from his flaming face and ears.

“Get up, you sweet goose – I think about _you_ in my bed all the time, so consider us even, Harry.” She relishes his shocked mien as he clambers back into his chair. ‘I was going to wait until we’d finished dinner to tell you I’d like us to spend tomorrow night together… in bed, Harry. M-Making love,” Pansy curses herself for the tiny stumble. _So much for Determined Bitch._ “If you want to… if you’re ready.”

“Unhhh… eeeeeeeee… urghhh…” Harry makes a series of odd vocalizations, his eyes bugging out behind his spectacles. He desperately coughs into his napkin.

 _Not really the response I was hoping for, having my boyfriend choke at the table._ Pansy pushes his water glass closer. “Sip slowly and breathe, please.”

“Sorry– I’m so sorry – what time? Should I bring anything? Nothing weird, I mean– eh, _Merlin_ …!” Harry firmly slaps his own cheek. “I’m absolutely honoured and ecstatic to accept your invitation, Pansy. I beg you to please ignore my idiotic reaction – I can’t bloody wait to make love with you.” He doesn’t moderate his volume, his vehemence carrying to the nosy couple at the nearby table ( _if their dramatic, shocked wheezes are any indication_ ).

Pansy keeps her voice at a similar level. _Give them a thrill, the sad old things._

“I can’t wait to make love with you too, Harry.”

Faces glowing with unfettered delight, they stare raptly at one another until their nervy waiter begins to peripherally hover.

_We’d best order before he starts crying. He means well. And honestly, I can’t blame him for his idolization of Harry… turns out I’ve got it awfully bad for this wonderful wizard, myself._

Pansy slyly winks at her boyfriend, jubilation bubbling as she peruses the menu once more.

* * *

_Sunday 29 March 2003: PM_

“Right, I think that’s the last of it,” Draco lugs the final crate of books into their new lounge room. Hands on hips, he dubiously eyes the already-bulging bookcase. “ _Ma petite_ , I believe you’re going to have to rethink whether you really need all of these here… doesn’t the library already stock identical titles?”. He picks up a random tome, his slate eyes comically widening at the colourful, raunchy cover.

“Well, perhaps not – I doubt Madam Pince has many copies of ‘Stolen Dreams’… By Merlin, I can see why they’re called ‘bodice-rippers’! Frankly, It’s a wonder this lewd image got past the censorship board– ”

“Don’t be ridiculous – and put that down,” Hermione unsuccessfully tries to snatch back the novel. Taking refuge behind their small two seater sofa, Draco easily evades her while he reads snippets of the blurb and adds his own cheeky commentary.

“’Raised in a perilous world of thieves and rogues, Gillie lived by her wiles and fiercely guarded her virtue. Then the delicate beauty encountered the handsome and gallant Baron Kinsale’… She sure did – look at him, the dirty bugger is flagrantly staring down her corset, Granger – pure filth – ugh, and he’s got red hair!…”

“Malfoy!” He sniggers as she chases him around the furniture, continuing to read aloud.

“’Yet this wild sweet waif, this unpolished pearl, was still a lass...and Kinsale dared not yield to his desire.’ Didn’t stop him from splaying her onto a bed for his merry oglings, though, did it? Tut-tut… you’re a smutty witch, my dear.”

Hermione finally wrenches the paperback from his grasp. “That’s not the tune you were singing yesterday, my dirty dragon.” She casually shrugs as she carefully returns her book to its fellows. “But that’s fine – no one’s forcing you to explore my lascivious leanings.”

Her pretended air of injured pride vanishes as Draco hurdles the couch to back her against the stone wall. His hard body is pressed flush to her front as he emphatically asserts, “I can’t get enough of your ‘lascivious leanings’, as you well know, my raunchy little lioness.” He stares down at her, his smile fading. _Have I pushed the joke too far? It_ is _a sensitive subject for her – I should have known better than to make fun. Fool that I am!_

“Hermione? You know I was merely teasing, right? I absolutely adore making love with you – I don’t want to sound like a degenerate perv, but it’s by far my favourite pastime, sweetheart. You’re the sexiest witch in the world, and I’m honoured (and exceedingly grateful) to participate in any ‘licentious behaviours’ you ever wish to explore.” He kisses her softly. “You do believe me, don’t you?”.

“Oh, of course; I was being playful, too. It’s alright, Draco – sometimes I think you worry more than me, and that’s quite a feat,” she sighs against his mouth, caressing the back of his down bent neck. “Much as I’d love to put you through your paces again – so to speak – we’d better leave the rest of this mess for later, we’re due at Hagrid’s hut in half an hour. We’re both covered in goodness-know-what from the move, and I refuse to dine whilst covered in muck.”

 _Hello, shared shower._ Draco grins. “I happen to know an excellent witch-washer: and best of all, he doesn’t apply a call-out charge,” he herds her toward their private bathroom, stopping dead when a thought strikes.

“Hagrid’s not cooking, is he?”.

“No, Mac and Ruibby are bringing down dinner from the castle’s kitchens. Did you just say, ‘call-out charge’? Careful, _mon amour_ , you’re sounding more Muggle by the day,” Hermione ribs.

“I think you mean ‘Muggalicious’, darling.”

Hermione’s incredulous groan at his silliness only mutes when he turns on the shower and applies himself to the indisputably joyous task of diligently (and rapidly) stripping her bare.

_Who cares if we’re a little late to dinner?_

* * *

“Master Malfoy and Her Grace Lady Granger are eleven and three-quarter minutes late to our repast!” Macdolas cries, after laboriously dragging open the heavy door of Hagrid’s hut to grant them admittance. A merrily panting Fang backs out of the way before his tail gets squashed, lumbering his impressive boarhound bulk to hide beneath the dining table, a bedraggled lace edge of tablecloth drooping over the big dog’s eyes like an incongruous bridal veil.

“Why, you fault-finding little tu–”

“Hallo! Thank you, Mac – we had a little trouble with the workings of our new shower,” Hermione glibly interrupts, raising her voice to drown out Draco’s snarled interjection. “Don’t you look smart? Let me guess – Swedish chef from The Muppets?” she refers to his pouffy white chef’s hat and snowy buttoned overcoat.

She prudently doesn’t glance Draco’s way, thus missing his self-satisfied expression as he thinks of the exact ‘problem’ with their new shower… _i.e., the logistics involved in us having enough space for my broader frame to wedge between Hermione’s spread thighs – I’ll ask permission for an Expansion Charm at the earliest opportunity._ His sneer softens to a smirk as flashes of their tryst whip through his mind, Macdolas’s irksomeness mostly forgotten.

“Righ’ yeh are, Hermione love,” Hagrid fondly hugs the witch. “Yeh’re still glowin’ – reckon yeh’re as happy as a clam ter be back at Hogwarts, eh? We’ve been countin’ the days, haven’t we, Luna love?”. He effortlessly reels the petite blonde into the embrace, his shaggy beard obscuring the tops of the women’s heads. A bushy marmalade tail switches as Crookshanks peers from his roost on the back of Hagrid’s thick neck, wasp-yellow eyes gleaming in apparent feline amusement.

“Young Draco, yeh’ve been takin’ proper care of our girl?” Hagrid turns, seeming not to register the Kneazle-cat sinking his talons into the half-giant’s shoulders for extra support.

Draco squeaks as Hagrid somehow manages to reef him into the impromptu group hug, too. _The man’s huge enough to have a planet named for him, by Zeus._ His useless struggles subside as his face is inexorably pressed into Hagrid’s massive chest. _I can’t breathe – no wait, my nose is still working – now I wish it weren’t –_ he feebly sputters as the pungent smell of woodsmoke, earth, grass, sweat, and strong cologne pervades his flaring nostrils.

**_Help me, Hermione – I’m being lovingly smothered to death._ **

“Hagrid, I think Draco’s having a little trouble drawing breath,” Hermione tactfully points out, effecting a loosening of Hagrid’s arms.

“Eh, he’ll be righ’ as rain in a moment or two,” Hagrid mercifully releases the trio to shuffle over to the dinner table. “Come on, me stomach’s grumblin’ tha’ me throat’s been cut – the wee ones’ve laid on a firs’-rate spread.”

“Hi, Luna,” Draco greets, once he’s able to speak. He gathers her in a very light hug, mindful of Hagrid’s recent suffocation. “How are you? Today’s been such a blur – I’m glad we can finally catch up.”

“Hullo, Draco, I’m well. Have you found everything to your liking? Minerva went to some pains to ensure your joint living quarters were as comfortable as possible. She asked me to tell you to please let her know if you need anything she hasn’t already supplied,” Luna informs.

“Everything’s wonderful, Luna,” Hermione assures. “Is there anything we should know about, before we start in the morning? Luna?”.

Draco begins to feel uneasy as Luna’s gentle smile slightly wobbles. “Luna, please: if there’s a problem, we need to know about it as soon as possible.”

“Well… it’s more of a tiny pushback,” Luna quietly replies. “You’ve probably been too busy to read the papers today; there’s a small article on page three, about how a few parents are not pleased with Draco’s appointment to the teaching staff. I’m sure it’s just a flash in the pan, all will be forgotten in a few days.”

Macdolas bounces over, clutching a broadsheet. “Master Malfoy should sue for defenestration! The House of Granger-Malfoy shall not suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune!” he bristles, stabbing his finger at the offending passage.

“’Defenestration’ is the act of throwing someone out a window, Macdolas,” Draco half-heartedly chips, his attention captured by the old photograph of his younger, surlier self. “I think you mean ‘defamation’, scamp.”

“Technically, defenestration can also mean ‘the action or process of dismissing someone from a position of power or authority’,” Hermione adds, brows knitting as she reads over his shoulder. “The ruddy Prophet again! I’m going to have to fit in another visit to Skeeter this week, somehow.”

“No, it’s not her by-line; and technically they haven’t printed anything libellous, it’s all ‘alleged Dark Wizard’ and ‘unsubstantiated rumours yet abound,” Draco flatly remarks. He doesn’t realize his shoulders are tensed and hunched until Hermione runs a caring hand along his upper spine and neck. He claws for his cool control, forces his cramped muscles to relax, and casually rakes back his flopped blond fringe.

“Luna’s right, we shouldn’t pay it much heed. Headmistress McGonagall will let us know if parental concerns become a problem. Let’s sit down and enjoy this delicious feast, guys.” Draco arranges his teeth in what he hopes passes for a smile. Ruibby’s little hand patting his as her head leans against his leg causes him to freeze.

“Master Malfoy is a good man, a Light Wizard, and the best employer MacRu will ever be lucky enough to serve,” she staunchly proclaims. “Ruibby trusts Master Malfoy with her life, and thanks him deeply for his many kindnesses and unconditional care. Though MacRu are now proud employees of Castle Hogwarts, always will their primary allegiance rest with the House of Granger-Malfoy.” She concludes her stirring speech with a stylish curtsey.

“Hear, hear!” Macdolas loudly chimes in, while Hagrid claps, winking away a few tears. Luna bobs her head approvingly. Hermione slips her hand into Draco’s, squeezing firmly.

“See? You are beloved, Draco. Please don’t let the petty opinions of a few ruin your joy at realizing your dreams,” she softly entreats.

“Folk’re jes’ frightened, lad – the War’s long been over, but fully believin’ it, well, tha’s easier said than done, yeh know. Yeh’ll be a splendid professor, an’ yeh’ll have the tykes an’ parents comin’ round in no time a’tall, yeh’ll see,” Hagrid’s booming voice prophesies.

“Hagrid’s right, Draco. Minerva had to address some complaints when I was first appointed as a Magizoology professor, you know.” Luna splays her hands wide as they all stare at her in disbelief. “It’s true. Some people thought I was ‘too flighty and crazy’ to be an effective teacher. It was a trifle upsetting, but Minerva assured me she had the utmost faith in my abilities and commitment. She also publicly stated that any parent who challenged my right to the position was welcome to enrol their child at another institution. She even had that printed in the newsletter, in bold type.”

 _Arseholes._ Draco’s teeth grind as he considers what kind of bottom-feeder could ever sink so low as to wilfully attack their dearest Ravenclaw angel.

“Not a single child was withdrawn from my classes, and Minerva made it very clear to the Board that she will never tolerate unreasonable interference to her right to run Hogwarts as she sees fit,” Luna smiles, her pale blue eyes twinkling. “Sometimes it’s hard to not take this kind of rejection personally, but you must understand that everyone who knows you… everyone who _really_ knows you… loves you, Draco.”

 _I won’t cry._ Draco chews on the inside of his cheeks, burying his face in Hermione’s silky mahogany curls. As always, her touch grounds him. He fiercely clings to his treasured sweetheart, overwhelmed by her, and his friends’ support.

“Thanks, everyone,” he eventually finds the fortitude to croak. “I appreciate your support very much.”

Hermione steers them to sit on the oversized wooden structures Hagrid calls chairs, her own eyes moist and blinking.

“Macdolas asks if the weeping wizards are _finally_ ready to consume the delicious banquet that Macdolas and Ruibby toil over for hours to prepare, working their tired fingers to the bone, jostling for the tiniest portion of space in the crowded castle kitchen, stoically bearing the strict disapprobation of their colleagues as they doggedly bustle to and fro– ”

“Macdolas! Our fellow house elves have been nothing but helpful, _and_ produced most of this feast for our party without even being asked!” a scandalized Ruibby scolds her beau. “Ruibby will not stand by and listen to such wickedly heinous falsehoods – apologize at once, please!” She imperiously stamps her tiny foot.

“Darlingest Ruibby, Macdolas merely employs his renowned improvisational theatrical abilities to entertain his appreciative public, and to lighten the emotionally-charged mood that hangs over our cherished company like the Sword of Damocles!” he stridently avers.

 _He certainly is a constant source of amusement… ‘the Sword of Damocles’, indeed. Dramatic, much?_ Draco disguises his chuffed laugh behind his cupped palm.

Ruibby’s cutting glare could strip the varnish from the well-worn wooden table… _assuming any yet remained,_ Draco wryly muses. The humans hold their breath as Macdolas wilts under her surveillance like a hothouse flower in full sunshine.

“Macdolas is reasonably sorry for his harmless misdirection,” he rumbles, addressing his boots. “Macdolas _did_ bake the shortbread biscuits, though.”

“Ruibby is rightly proud of her brilliant biscuit-baking boyfriend; she occasionally berates his behaviours from a place of true love, and minor judgement.” The teeny elf zealously sprinkles ardent kisses all over Mac’s grinning face.

“Pass the butter, would yeh please, Luna love?” Hagrid shifts his mass to point to the butter dish, presumably in a hasty effort to block out the elfish love fest taking place beside him. Fang quickly retracts his slobbering head back under the table when MacRu’s groping hands get a little too close to his velvety muzzle.

Hermione faintly asks, “Ruibby, Mac – while we’re all glad you’re getting along so… sweetly, perhaps you could postpone your amorous celebrations until you return to your own quarters?”. Her words have zero effect on the snogging sprites.

Draco reaches over to flick the back of Macdolas’s head. “Knock it off, or go outside, Don Juan.” He can’t help but break into laughter as Mac recoils, crabbily flipping Draco his nubby middle finger, behind Ruibby’s narrow back. Hermione, Hagrid, and Luna join in; even Fang barks in solidarity a few times. Crookshanks jumps off Hagrid’s back to sniff curiously at the fey lovers.

Once their chuckles have died down to titters, Luna turns to Draco to whisper, “Do you think MacRu would consent to being interviewed as to their developing sexuality, both singular and plural, Draco? I think a study of elfin intercourse rituals would make a fascinating subject for my follow-up treatise.”

“Uh – I suppose it doesn’t hurt to ask,” Draco mumbles. “Ask them, I mean – not me.”

Luna cocks her head. “Oh, but I’m counting on your involvement, Draco; Hermione’s passed along a copy of ‘Your Guide to Elven Sexuality’, and it's a perfectly wonderful manual. She also said it will be released in hardback form by the end of the year, just in time for Christmas. Well done, Mr Sex Ed Author!”. She smiles blithely as she picks up the bowl of colourful food in front of her. “Moroccan roasted veggie salad?”.

Nodding dumbly – with his face aflame – Draco glances at Hermione, unsurprised to see her broad, smug smile.

 **_Oh, Granger… you’ll pay for your meddling,_ ** **ma petite _._**

 **_Oh, Malfoy… you know I’ll always come out ahead,_ ** **mon amour _._**

Raising her glass of blackcurrant cordial in a cheeky salute, she smiles even wider.

* * *

The quoted excerpt is from the novel ‘Stolen Dreams’ by Catherine Lyndell.


	83. Adoration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 100% focused on Harry & Pansy's first time together; please feel free to skip it if their pairing (or the sexual content) isn't to your taste.
> 
> Chapter 84 will return to Hermione and Draco's first week teaching at Hogwarts.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, for leaving kudos, and for your wonderful reviews.
> 
> Love from VJ 💗🤍💚

__

_Sunday 29 March 2003: PM_

Pansy fiddles with the knot of her Obi sash. _This is silly… I should run back into my bedroom and put on some proper clothes. Harry might think I’m being an overeager–_

_No. Remember what Dr Rica said – calling yourself a slut is perpetuating the cycle of low self-esteem you’ve struggled with. I have every right to express my sexuality as I see fit. I’m in a happy, healthy, safe, consensual relationship with my wonderful boyfriend, and I’m ready to finally explore the intimately physical aspects of our… romance._

_All of which is an awfully fancy way of saying I’m dying to jump Harry’s oh-so-sexy bones,_ Pansy grins, flicking another look at the clock. _He’s not due for another ten minutes, dammit. I need a distraction._ Pivoting on her bare heel, she starts for the kitchen to check on the tapas platter she’d earlier arranged. _Maybe I should add a few more chopitos…_

The activation of the Floo halts her immediately. _He’s here!!_

“Pansy? I’m a little early, I hope you don’t mind – oof!” Harry staggers for a moment as she energetically hurls herself into his arms, foregoing graceful dignity in favour of showering kisses all over his cheeks and jaw.

“I guess you’re OK with it,” he chuckles, laying down a single, perfect pink rose on her mantle as he steadies his grip beneath her buttocks, her legs folding around his waist.

“You brought me more flowers? Oh, Harry…!”

“’A’ flower, Kreach– I mean, I thought it was more romantic than a huge bunch,” Harry hastily amends. “By Godric, I missed you, love… I’ve thought about you all day – you’ve no idea how much clock-watching I’ve done,” he gruffly confesses, his viridian eyes darkening. They gaze intently at one another for few silent moments.

“I spent half an hour coordinating every timepiece in the flat, to make sure I would know _exactly_ how many minutes to count until you came over,” Pansy divulges, dropping her lashes to cover her eyes and burying her face in Harry’s corded neck. Breathing in his clean, fresh scent helps to settle down the monstrous butterflies flittering madly in her stomach.

“Pansy, I’m really nervous,” Harry admits. “I’m afraid I’m going to mess up, tonight – by saying or doing the wrong thing, or by making you think I expect anything from you – I don’t – I’d be delighted to spend the night simply sitting beside you–”

“Harry. Please, stop.” Pansy raises her head, laying her fingers against his clean-shaven cheek. “I’m so nervous, too! Not because I’m afraid… it’s because I don’t want to disappoint you, Duckie.”

“Disappoint me…?! Pansy, that’s impossible.” Harry rests his forehead against hers, clearing his throat before he quietly says, “I’m constantly worried you’re going to realize I’m not fit to lick your boots; you’re an absolute bloody miracle, and I can’t believe you’re my girlfriend… anyway, I just want to make sure you’re secure, and comfortable… and ready.”

_If I were any more ready, I’d freaking **combust**._ Pansy reluctantly slides off him, her feet finding purchase on the floor as she vehemently assures, “Harry – I’m ready. I want this– I want you, I want you so badly I can just about taste it, OK? Um, speaking of which, I made up a light platter, I thought maybe you might want to – _eeeee!_ ” She squeals in surprise as Harry sweeps her into a bridal-carry and walks them out of the living room at impressive speed.

“I guess we’ll skip supper,” she murmurs delightedly, clinging to him like a limpet as he charges down the hallway.

“The only thing I want to taste tonight is you, Pansy,” Harry growls. “All of you, love… every square inch.” He spares her a swift, covetous glance before he kicks open her bedroom door. “And then… I want to start all over again, until we’re both too exhausted to do anything but collapse in each other’s arms and snatch enough sleep to revive us for the next round.”

His rumbled, avid declaration shifts to familiar diffidence. “Assuming you want that too, of course.”

_Oh. Oh, hell YES._ Pansy shudders in his firm arms as an acute surge of anticipation and greedy desire unfurls inside her, clearing her mind of any lingering nerves. Harry’s unexpected display of dominance has pushed her simmering need into the redline in a matter of seconds. Heat blooms in her loins, her breath shortening as she vigorously nods.

“Harry – I want that, too – I want all of that.” Her trembling hand traces the outline of his square jaw; he turns his head to nip lightly at her palm. “There are a few things I need you to know… please don’t cover my mouth or put your hands around my neck. I know you wouldn’t say it, but also, please don’t call me that phrase– um–”

To her immense relief, Harry interrupts before she chokes out the hated words. “I know which one – I’ll never, ever call you that, sweetheart. Or do any of those things.” He stops at the end of her bed, gazing down at her with a look of such earnest _goodness_ that Pansy forgets to breathe. “Would it be alright if I called you, “my Pansy”, sometimes? I– I’d really like to.”

“Of course – I’d really like that too, Harry… my Harry,” she manages to shyly reply, her loose dark hair sliding over his arm as she emphatically nods her accord. “I promise I’ll be open and honest with you – not just with the sex stuff, with everything.”

“Not ‘sex stuff’; we’re going to make love tonight, Pansy,” Harry gently corrects, laying her down on the bed with such precious care that she feels her eyes sting. “I promise to be honest and open about everything, too – if you’ll please excuse me getting a bit embarrassed and awkward sometimes.”

Pansy sinuously stretches before propping herself back onto her elbows, loving the way Harry’s wide eyes track her every movement. “Harry, I realize this may come as a shock to you; but your occasional goofiness is adorable… and utterly irresistible. Come, sit down with me.” She pats the space beside her in invitation.

Harry toes off his leather shoes, sending them flying under her bed. He hops on one foot to tear off his socks, a wry grin suffusing his handsome face as Pansy chuckles.

“Don’t laugh at me, love – you literally just told me how cute my ineptness is,” he pretends to grumble, sending his leather belt sailing.

Pansy flies upright, wagging her finger as Harry starts to unbutton his navy-blue long-sleeved shirt. “Uh-uh: that’s my prerogative, Mr Potter.” She plays with the collar of her cream and mint green kimono. “Unless you’re not interested in reciprocity? I’ll just take this off myself, then,” she carelessly shrugs.

“No! I mean to unwrap you like a Christmas present, sweetheart,” Harry jumps onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress bounce. “Sorry!” he mutters, as Pansy giggles.

Reaching out to steady herself, she ends up clutching his forearms as Harry hovers above her, his arms braced to hold his weight clear. The air between them seems sluggish… thick with raw need, excitement… and hope.

Moving with exquisite care, Pansy brushes Harry’s unruly thick black hair from his brow. It’s still a little damp and shows evidence of ruthless comb lines. _He must have tried to tame it for me,_ Pansy realizes, unbearably touched. _He was fighting a losing battle, of course… my sweet, sexy darling._ She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to regain some composure to offset her vulnerability.

_It’s OK… I can be vulnerable, with Harry. He won’t hurt me… he’d rather cut off his right hand than deliberately cause me pain._ Her eyelashes flutter open, colliding with his perturbed gaze.

“Pansy? Should we take a breather… maybe go investigate your yummy supper platter?”.

“ _Absolutely not_. Kiss me, Harry. I’ve yearned for this moment ever since that day you tracked me down to that dusty old archives room and snogged me silly.” She lightly yanks at the ends of his beautiful black mop, bringing his lips within a millimetre of her own. “Make me yours… as I intend to make you mine, Harry James Potter.”

Something untamed and primal flares in his sea-green eyes. Pansy expects a kiss of savage intensity; instead, Harry kisses her gently, softly, his lips brushing against the corners of her mouth with exquisite tenderness.

“You’re so beautiful, Pansy Mallory Parkinson… you’re such a strong, powerful, gorgeous woman,” he quietly murmurs. “We’ve all the time in the world, love. Let me worship you, tonight.”

_Oh, for Salazar’s sake – this beautiful man is going to have me blubbing like a baby._ Pansy swallows down the giant lump in her throat.

“Only – only if you let me worship you, too,” she manages to croak. “Lie down, Harry.”

Rolling onto his left side, he draws her leg across his upper thigh, his big hand stroking her hip through the thin crepe of her pretty kimono.

“I was a complete arse to you, that day… I acted like a nasty little schoolboy, lashing out because I couldn’t handle my wild attraction to you,” Harry’s grip tightens and relaxes. “I felt like the lowest of the low when you gave your supremely dignified apology and left my office. I’m sorry, I never should have–”

“Harry. My apology was long-overdue… and you didn’t say anything I didn’t need to hear.” Pansy stills his predictable denial by holding her forefinger to his parted lips. “We’re past all that – if anything, I’m glad you challenged me… it led us here, didn’t it?”.

“You’re amazing, Pansy – I’m the luckiest wizard in the world, to call myself your boyfriend.” Harry’s eyes appear enormous – and soulful – behind his glasses.

“Harry – may I take off your spectacles?”. At his nod, she folds them closed and uses wandless magic to slide them safely onto her dresser. Giving him an auspicious smile, she moves her nimble fingers to the buttons of his shirt, quickly flicking them open to expose a very tempting view of pale, hard pecs, and washboard abs.

_Damn… he’s fit. Such a waste to keep all these muscles hidden under those heavy Auror robes._ Pansy isn’t aware she’s spoken aloud her admiring observation until Harry snickers.

“I’m glad you like what you see, love.”

Pansy pinches the taut skin around his belly button. “Cheeky! Yeah, you should be happy your girl appreciates your hot bod, Auror Potter!”.

“Believe me – I’m ecstatic to hear it. My turn, love.” The only sign that Harry isn’t wholly self-assured right now is the minute trembling of his fingers as they work loose her sash, scrupulously pulling apart the lapels of her kimono. His indrawn gasp as his slow reveal finally exposes her pretty lingerie set is music to Pansy’s ears.

“Sweet Myrddin Merlinus…” he reverently whispers, easing the kimono down her shoulders. “Look at you, darling… you’re a dream come true.” Oh-so-carefully, Harry strokes the pads of his fingers along her collarbones, ghosting over the tops of her small, high breasts, alluringly displayed in the blush-pink, sheer, demi-cup, floral lace bra. Three satin ribbons of the same shade band horizontally below the cups, the design echoed on the top of the matching thong.

“I thought about wearing black… but I chose this one, in the end,” Pansy witters. _Gods, I feel as skittish as a wild horse – settle down, witch._ She instinctively arches her back, pushing her breasts into Harry’s calloused hands, thrills of pure bliss shivering through her system at his light touch.

He responds immediately to her wordless request, firming his strokes and squeezes, one hand curving down to her waist. Running an experimental finger beneath the beribboned hem of her filmy pink knickers, Harry gruffly asks, “Tell me, love – did you buy these with me in mind? Did you imagine me touching you… kissing you… stroking you? Rubbing my fingers through your sweet, soft, lips…” he unerringly matches his words to his actions, watching her hungrily as she writhes beneath him.

_Holy Hoo-hoos, my boy’s a talker._ Pansy whimpers as Harry rests two fingers just above her sensitive nubbin, skimming across her special bundle of nerves in an unpredictable rhythm. _I had a whole seduction scene mapped out – guess that’ll have to wait…_

“My beautiful, sensuous witch… you’re so wet for me, aren’t you, love? You tell me what you want, and I’ll do it,” Harry croons. “I want to do _everything_ with you, Pansy.”

“Kiss me– please, kiss me– and put your fingers inside me, Harry, hurry–” Pansy’s gasp of rapture is smothered by his warm mouth, his tongue seeking and twining with hers in a primitive dance. She clutches fistfuls of his open shirt as he obeys her command, his fingers expertly gliding inside her, his measured pace at odds with his rapid respiration.

_Why the fuck did we wait this long?!_ Pansy thinks, astonished (and not a little bewildered) by the insane chemistry they’re generating. _I’ve never, ever felt like this before… I’ve thoroughly lost my much-touted self-control, and I bloody well **love** it…_

Harry adds another digit, his controlled plunges already skyrocketing her arousal to crazy heights. Pansy breaks their blazing kiss to cry out her pleasure.

“ _Ohhhhh_ – Harry – _pleasepleaseplease_ … wait, wait, I want us to come skin-to-skin, with nothing between us,” she seizes his shirt, snarling as it resists her clumsy attempts to wrench it down his sinewy arms.

“Pansy, it’s OK– we’ve got all night–” he tries to reason, withdrawing his hand from her panties and laughing huskily as she whips her head in negation, abandoning the recalcitrant shirt to attack the zipper of his snug jeans.

“Stop arguing and help me strip you nude, Harry. I cast my contraceptive charm before you arrived, have you done yours?” she briskly demands, cheered by his instant nod. “Excellent – now, help me out by lifting those sexy hips of yours, please.”

Hooking her thumbs beneath the waistband of his jeans and briefs, Pansy kneels up to drag both garments down his legs in one violent motion, tossing them to the floor.

_Oh, my._ Her left incisor sinks into her bottom lip as she takes in the spectacular – _really, there’s no other word for it_ – picture Harry presents, lying recumbent on her lilac and cream quilt… now clothed only in a tangled navy shirt, the cuffs caught on his wrists. His eyes glitter as he watches her without a shred of self-consciousness, his heavy cock hard and proud against his muscled belly, legs splayed and tensed.

“Your turn, Pansy. Strip for me. Please.” The rough, throaty order makes her whine through her clamped teeth, further slicking her already damp core. Keeping their eyes locked, Pansy shucks off the dangling kimono, before reaching behind her back to unhook her see-through bra. She pushes off the ruffled cups one at a time, noting Harry’s pupils dilate as the undergarment completely falls off her perky globes. Pushing the bra off the bed, she risks a few quick fondles of her beaded nipples, playing a naughty game of peek-a-boo with her flared fingers.

“Do that– do that again,” Harry rasps, twisting to impatiently unfasten the confining cuffs and free himself of his shirt. “Show me what you like, sweetheart. I’m going to worship those perky beauties tonight, mark my words.”

“I like feather-soft touches, at first… little circles, but not on my areolae, not just yet,” Pansy happily demonstrates, shuffling forward until her bent knees touch the inside of Harry’s spread thighs. “Then firm squeezes, like this… put your hands on me, Harry,” she pleads.

“Take off those pretty panties first, Pansy.” His inexorable tone is marvellously stimulating. Pansy pops up to stand on the bed, wobbling a bit as she snakes the knickers down her long legs. She is about to kick them in the direction of Harry’s discarded clothing when he holds out his palm.

“Give them to me.”

Dropping them into his hand without a moment’s hesitation, Pansy returns to her earlier position, leaning back on her haunches. Harry delicately turns over the scrap of lace and elastic, a wolfish grin on his face as he breathes, “They’re soaked… I can smell you on them, Pansy. Strawberries and honey… I can’t wait to taste you. Let me lick your sweet pussy, love,” he beckons, pushing back until his head is resting just below the wooden headboard of her antique four poster bed. He tucks her knickers to the side of the plump pillow. “Straddle me.”

Rendered speechless, Pansy gapes as Harry smirks wickedly at her. “My French might need a lot of work, but I assure you, Pansy; I’m still quite a cunning linguist.”

“Harry Potter – you filthy little biscuit!” Pansy shrieks, before her helpless sniggers get the better of her. _He’s so much fun, switching effortlessly between maddeningly sexy and humorously silly… I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life, and yet I’m laughing fit to kill. I’m so lucky._

“Have I gone too far, love?” Harry soberly asks, once their shared mirth has abated. “I mean, I’d love to do that – hell, I can’t think of much at all I _don’t_ want to do with you – but all I really want is for you to feel comfortable, and safe.”

Pansy decides actions speak louder than words, in this instance. She grazes her hand over his throbbing manhood, delighting in his deep groan and little hip bump, before crawling up beside his raised head. Carefully lowering herself to rest just above his shoulders, she places her knees beside his head, her shins on his chest. Looking down, Pansy bestows a wicked smile of her own as she grips the serpentine-decorated headboard for support, gasping as Harry takes the hint and parts her wet folds with one deft hand, the other reaching around to cup her bum.

“Let’s see if you really can speak in tongues, Duckie – oh!” His mouth avidly sweeps up and around, latching onto her sensitive tissues in an open-mouthed kiss… Pansy struggles not to buck too violently as sensation after sensation whirls her into a panting maelstrom. Harry easily keeps her in place, though his strength never makes her feel threatened or trapped. _We really should have tumbled each other into bed a hell of a lot sooner…!_

Every limb quaking, she chants his name and his praises in a stream-of-consciousness babble, alternating between shutting her eyes and sneaking quick looks at his animated, focused face. Pansy’s initial concerns about accidentally squashing him are forgotten as Harry firmly encourages her full weight to settle on his upper torso. He shifts between kitten licks, nibbles, sucks, and plunging strokes of his tongue, occasionally mumbling against her soft inner thighs as he gently bites them too.

“I want to eat you out like this every day, love – I’ve dreamed of tasting you, suckling you – your rich honey dripping onto my tongue, claiming your sweet pussy as mine, you’re all _mine_ –” His hoarse, rumbling musings pause as he returns to his busy oral endeavours.

_That’s it, he’s going to actually kill me with pleasure… but oh, what a way to go_ – Pansy dazedly obeys when Harry tells her to grab onto the headboard again, her hands having slipped to claw at his wildly ruffled hair. Another few minutes of passionate torment, before she breaks.

“Harry – I can’t take much more – I’m going to come, I want to come with you!” she yowls, finding just enough resolve to ‘dismount’. She slides down his chest, batting away his hands to sit back between his thighs.

“My turn.” Pansy bobs her head to his thick, straining rod, licking delicately at the reddened bell-end. Harry’s whole body seizes, his head slamming into the pillow.

“Pansy– _ohmigod_ – your hot mouth– darling, I won’t last–”

Taking in more of his imposing length, she feathers her tongue in a clockwise swirl, feeling wondrously smug as Harry’s back bows and his flared legs kick fitfully.

“Please, love – ride me, I’m beyond ready,” Harry cries, his hand carefully stroking her cheek as she disengages with a soft pop. “Pansy, I want you so badly… please,” his last word is a whisper.

Moving forward again, Pansy waits until Harry’s eyes are fixed unblinking upon her. “Harry, sit up against the headboard? I want to be as close to you as possible… I want us to ride each other,” she murmurs. Once he’s braced against the heavy wood, Pansy sits over his lap, guiding his weeping tip to her wet centre, holding him just inside her for a few heartbeats.

_My Harry… my gorgeous, sexy, loving boyfriend… you make me so happy._ Despite their fervid coupling, a feeling of intense tranquillity settles around her; Pansy bears down, enveloping his velvety, rigid staff in her silken heat.

“Pansy… my glorious Pansy… you feel incredible, love,” Harry purrs, easily matching her slow cadence; they rock together, unhurried surges and retreats. Establishing a blissful rhythm, their arms wrap around each other, their soughing breaths syncing.

On every other exhale, their mouths meet in a torrid caress. Pansy concentrates on setting every moment of this singular experience into her memory, staving off her impending climax. Her hands meander over every inch of Harry’s gleaming, sleek skin that she can reach, her breasts chafing deliciously against his lightly-furred pecs, as his rugged fingers explore her own dewy skin. The faint noises of the street outside have long since faded out; all she can hear is the thump of her own heartbeat, the slide of their bodies, and their soft moans.

They climax together, cresting a wave of utter, joyful ecstasy, their bodies flexing and releasing. Pansy loses all sense of time as Harry’s lips crash back onto hers, deep kisses softening to licks and nibbles while orgasmic aftershocks still tingle through her overloaded body and mind.

She doesn’t know she is crying until Harry’s fingertips delicately trace the silvered tracks on her cheeks. “Did I hurt you, love? I’m so sorry, my darling girl– ”

“No! No, Harry, of course you didn’t hurt me,” Pansy mumbles, her voice still ragged after the intensity of their joining. “You’re crying too!”. She copies his gesture, dabbing away the teardrops spiking his black lashes.

“Am I? I am!” Harry confirms, roughly scrubbing at his eyes before she can stop him. His hand returns to her back, rubbing wide, soothing circles. “Pansy… that was… I didn’t… I haven’t…” he clucks in frustration, wedging his head into the hollow of her neck.

“Yeah… that was… something…” Pansy weakly agrees, inundated with a sudden languor. “Harry, can we lie down for just a bit? We’re not done here – uh-uh, _no way am I finished with you, mister!_ – but I might need a little breather.” Her head sags as she tiredly finishes the sentence.

“Of course, love. I could use a quarter-time break, myself.” Harry wriggles them down onto the pillows, wrenching and rolling the quilt across them instead of sliding them beneath it.

“Rest, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you wake,” he carefully pulls out of her languid body before lying flat and arranging her to snuggle in beside him, her drowsy head on his shoulder.

“Five minutes… that’s all I need… maybe ten…” she mutters.

Pansy vaguely wonders at the annoying pale green light at the periphery of her vision, as she capitulates to the insistent need to slumber. _That bulb might need replacing… meh, it can wait._

* * *

“Harry, I _can_ feed myself, you know,” Pansy observes, as he pops another marinated olive into her mouth. “Just as I’m capable of walking, rather than being hauled about in your arms,” she references his insistence on carrying her to the kitchen to retrieve the tapas platter, which they are now enjoying in the middle of her messy bed.

“Well, yeah – but it’s more fun when I help you like this, hmmm?” Harry grins. “Here, have some more choppy-peters.”

“ _’Chopitas’_ , you gosling,” Pansy corrects, laughing around the mouthful of small fried squid. “I suspect you’re messing with me now, Harry Potter.” She nudges his bare upper arm, the casually-tied silk kimono falling off her shoulder to expose the proud curve of her breast. Harry’s eyes widen, despite his intent to leave off notifying the witch of the accidental wardrobe slip for as long as possible. _There’s a view I’ll never tire of._

“Hey! You could have said something,” she grumbles, adjusting the robe, while Harry groans his disappointment. Pansy slaps playfully at his stretching hand. “You had your fingers – and your mouth – on my boobs not twenty minutes ago, Harry,” she reminds. “Have you already forgotten what they look like?”.

_Oh, darling – I could certainly sketch your magnificent mammaries from memory,_ Harry thinks, but wisely doesn’t repeat aloud. “I’m a firm believer in practical, hands-on learning techniques, Pansy,” he sagely nods. “Don’t they say that in order to form a habit, you have to repeat a pattern at least six times? I’m a better scholar than many give me credit for, love.”

“Who says? I bet that’s something you’ve nicked from Hermione, you shameless tit-grabber,” Pansy sceptically responds. She smirks as he pretends outrage. “Don’t play coy with me, Harry; today’s been quite the revelation… who would have thought The Chosen One was so wonderfully… vocal, and inventive, in the bedroom? And possessed of such a long, thick… tongue?” she teases, cackling as he crankily huffs.

“I don’t like that stupid term, I wasn’t ‘chosen’ so much as ‘cursed’,” Harry sharply states, regretting his bitter words as soon as they leave his silly mouth. Pansy averts her eyes, carefully wiping her hands on the paper serviette.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean anything by it. I won’t say it again.”

“No – I’m being a jerk – it’s fine, Pansy. Please, come here.” Harry gathers her into his arms, flicking his wrist to magically move their half-eaten platter over to the dresser. “That phrase… I guess it’s a trigger for me. That’s what the Department therapist told me, when I had my first session with him on Friday. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so touchy and dour.” He is greatly relieved when Pansy relaxes into his tender hold, her fingers lacing through his and holding them to her stomach.

“My grumpy little Gryffindor… it’s OK, I understand.” She hesitates for a moment. “I… I really enjoyed being intimate with you, Harry. I mean… I’ve never felt like that, with anyone else. Just… you.”

She lifts her eyes; Harry forgets to breathe as he sees her sincerity shining in them. Memories of their passionate lovemaking session bombard his brain.

He’d awoken before Pansy, tickled awake by two tiny green pinpricks of light dancing above their sleeping forms. “Turn off that damned lamp,” Pansy had grouched, still draped across his chest.

Chuckling softly, Harry had run his hand down her silky hair until she’d fallen deeper into sleep, dreamily watching the pair of radiant little dots repeatedly merging, breaking apart, and re-forming. _Must be some residual inadvertent magic, after our splendid sex_ , he’d finally determined, dismissing the nagging idea that the funny phosphorescence looked uncannily like that weird light show of Draco and Hermione’s, in the dungeon. _Nope,_ their _– what did Draco call it? – ‘supernatural manifestation of pure power and love’ had appeared in a swarming mass, and been coloured in bright golds and silvers, anyway. Nothing like this funny lone, greenish speckling._

Just as he’d closed his eyes again, Pansy’s soft hand had crept to his groin, petting and stroking him to full tumescence in a matter of seconds. He’d voiced a token protest that she’d not achieved enough rest, his half-hearted objection easily overruled by her enthusiastic kisses.

Trading heady caresses and fiery smooches, it hadn’t taken long before Harry had again slipped between her slender legs, driving forcefully into her willing warmth as she’d writhed beneath him, her manicured nails graunching down his back as she’d screamed out his name and her ferocious exaltation. A few minutes’ refractory period, before Pansy had languidly stretched, flipping onto her elbows and wiggling her pert bum in flagrant, saucy invitation. Mounting her from behind, Harry had strummed his fingers to her swollen bud until she’d clenched and shuddered, sparking his own apex.

He’d taken significantly longer to recover from that third bout of strenuously magnificent intercourse, spurred on to round four by Pansy’s seductive voice whispering raunchy suggestions in his ear (‘the Seashell’: she’d laid on her back again, raising her legs all the way up until they’d crossed behind her head, Harry thrusting deeply as her right hand had expertly worked her clit to completion).

Every insanely vivid orgasm had simultaneously felt like a ‘little death’ and a rebirth… he’d thought of nothing but Pansy, and the unique nirvana they’d achieved together, all his usual worries and stressors securely locked outside their cherished, sensual bubble.

Now, Harry’s mouth works soundlessly a few times, overcome as he is by his profound sentiments for this astounding, complicated, brave, beautiful, extraordinary witch… _my Pansy._

“It’s never been like that for me either, love… no, not even with Ginny,” he solemnly answers the unspoken question he sees swimming in her stunning jasper eyes. “We’ve something special; and I don’t mean the sex – don’t get me wrong, the sex is phenomenal – no, this… _us_ … this is rare. You’re an exceptional jewel, my Pansy… and I want you to know that I treasure you.”

Harry raises her hand to his cheek, placing his other to hers. “Look at me, please. Thank you, for trusting me… for sharing yourself with me. Body,” he turns his face to kiss her palm, “and soul.” Bending his neck, he imparts the softest of amatory kisses to her mouth, pushing all his fierce emotion into the embrace.

A moment of minor panic, as Pansy’s mouth remains unmoving under his; Harry sighs as she finally reacts, her hand moving to tunnel through his hair and draw him closer. They kiss until they are both breathless, passion eventually gentling to affection… little tongue-tip laves on each other’s puffy lips.

“Harry… you’re the sweetest, sexiest, most surprising man I’ve ever met,” Pansy declares. “You’ve definitely cornered the market on romantic avowals, tonight… but thank you, too. You helped give me back a part of myself I was worried had been stolen from me… perhaps permanently. You made me feel safe, and free to reclaim my sexuality, again.’

Wiping at her moist eyes, she concludes, “Thank you for sharing yourself with me… my Harry.”

Scooping her onto his lap and hugging her tightly, Harry buries his face into her lustrous jet locks as he rocks her in his arms.

He bites his tongue to stop the words from leaking out.

_I’m ready to say them… but my gorgeous girl isn’t quite ready to hear them._

_Soon, my love… I promise._


	84. Adjustment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💗💗 Happy Valentine's Day, guys 💗💗  
> However you choose (or don't choose) to celebrate it, I wish you all the best.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and special thanks to my dear beta reader @Recoveringjaddict5, for all her kind advice and support.
> 
> I wrote a little Valentine's Day offering (starring MacRu).  
> Here's the link if you're interested:  
> [Red Roses for Ruibby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29427039)

__

_Monday 30 March 2003: AM_

Hermione gingerly slides from the bed, unable to lie quietly for another second. The pallid light creeping around the edges of the heavy drapes indicates it’s too early for her alarm to sound, but the excitement of starting her first day as a Professor of Arithmancy had her blinking awake over an hour ago. She’d snuggled into Draco’s warm body and tried to get back to sleep, only managing a light doze.

 _I don’t want to wake him – but I know I will if I keep twitching in our bed._ The stone floor is cold beneath her bare feet as she steps off the rug, crossing to peep out the tower window. Forgetting the discomfort of the chilled floor, Hermione gazes through the slim chink of view between the curtains, awed anew by the realization that she is truly back at her beloved Hogwarts, realizing a long-discarded dream… with Draco Malfoy. _My **beloved** Draco Malfoy. _

“Granger? Come back to bed, I’m lonely,” the object of her affection croakily wheedles, his eyes slitting open like a cranky kitten’s. “The sun’s barely up – it can’t possibly be time to arise, surely?”.

“No, we’ve an hour or so yet,” she checks the bedside clock, grinning as she jumps back between the sheets Draco is holding open, deliberately pressing her icy feet onto Draco’s warm legs. His shriek of outrage amuses her no end.

“Devilish minx! That was unkind, _ma petite_.” Despite his grumbles, Draco hugs her tight, burying his sleepy face in her mussed curls. “I love you, Professor Granger.”

“I love you too, Professor Malfoy.”

“’Associate’ Professor; don’t forget I’m on probation for the first fortnight,” he reminds.

“It’s not ‘probation’, Draco – Headmistress McGonagall wants to give you time to find your feet and manage your workload,” Hermione immediately corrects. “I’m also technically a novitiate… the only reason I’m teaching alone is because Minerva is so desperate to hand off the Arithmancy classes.”

“That, and the fact you’re a mastermind,” he adds. “A highly-organized mastermind: don’t think I didn’t see you sneaking a look at your lesson plans in the bathroom, when you were supposed to be brushing your teeth.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if I’d overreached in expecting the Third Years to have already grasped the intricacies of Pythagoras's constant, and I wanted to have a back-up exercise in case…” Hermione trails off as she feels Draco’s chest expanding. “You’re silently laughing at me, aren’t you? Mischievous git.”

“Darling, I’m not laughing at you; I’m delighted by your pure enthusiasm and brilliance, of course,” Mr Smooth swiftly rejoins. “I’m so happy for you, Hermione. And I’m honoured to be here, sharing your joy.”

“Draco… is this what you really want? Working at Hogwarts, I mean.” She holds her breath before he nods, firmly and unequivocally.

“I really do want this, Hermione. I promise. I would have been content to follow you here regardless, but I’ve always wanted to return to Hogwarts… maybe try to give back a little,” Draco concludes, his tone sombre. “And before you say I’ve given enough, I must disagree. Some debts can never be repaid.”

She opens her mouth to rebut his claim; Draco swoops on her parted lips, kissing her deeply. Though she knows it to be a partial distraction, Hermione fervently returns his ardent embrace. _I wonder if it will always be like this, between us… an utter conflagration of the senses, even when our loving is soft and sweet. Logically, I realize that nothing remains static – but I can’t imagine ever not feeling this blanketing desire for my beautiful wizard._

Rolling her onto her back, Draco smiles down as she pouts in protest at the ending of their smooch. “I want to continue, too – but you’ll have my hide if I dare make you late on our first day, Granger,” he reasons.

“You detest tardiness as well, Malfoy.” Hermione strokes back his white-blond fringe. “Your hair’s getting long, _mon amour_.”

“Mmm… I’m overdue a haircut. I’ll try to fit one in this weekend, when we’re back in London; or perhaps I’ll get a set of clippers and buzz it all off,” he grins.

“Don’t you bloody dare!” Hermione squalls. “I adore your hair, it’s so silky and soft… and _manageable_. I wish mine weren’t so crazy,” she wistfully muses. “I’m thinking of getting a shoulder-length bob for summer, actually.”

“I absolutely forbid it – haven’t we had a similar conversation before? Clearly I need to resort to stronger methods of deterrence.” Twirling a thick brown ringlet around his lean finger, Draco leans down to peck the tip of her scrunched nose. “I’ll invent and cast a spell on these gorgeous tresses if you force my hand – something that renders your glorious mop impervious to all sharp implements, perhaps.” He gracefully flips himself up and out of the bed before she can argue her case. “Hurry up, I want to watch you get dressed.”

“I’ll cut my hair if I want to, Draco,” Hermione rebelliously mutters.

“Of course – and I’ll shave my head if you ever do, Hermione.”

Tossing a pillow at him, Hermione pokes out her tongue as she scrambles out of bed. Draco swoops on her, hoisting her over his shoulder as though she’s a sack of grain, blithely ignoring her huffing protests.

“Naughty witch – I saw that insolent gesture. I think you need a shower to cool down that hot head of yours.” He strides toward the compact bathroom.

Her screeches turn into giggles, then sighs, as he rubs big circles over her cotton panty-clad buttocks, the oversized white t-shirt that once belonged to Draco having long since ridden up around her waist. “That feels amazing, Malfoy.”

“Better than a cold water rinse, I’ll wager.” He flicks on the tap marked ‘C’. “In you go, Granger.”

“Alright, the joke’s gone far enough, I’ll be good– ”

“What rubbish, you’re forever pushing my buttons… and I bloody love it,” Draco snickers. Sliding her down his shoulder, he turns off the tap before nuzzling his cheek against her forehead. “Call me sappy, but waking up with you – living with you – earning the right to share your golden orbit… _this_ is my dream come true.”

“Hullo, Sappy.”

“Hullo, Smartarse.”

“You’re pretty darned dreamy yourself, Malfoy.”

“Come, let’s get ready. Impressionable young minds await our combined excellence, don’t forget.”

“Always that soupçon of arrogance, huh?”

“ _Bien sûr_ , my love.”

* * *

_Monday 30 March 2003: PM_

“Draco! Over here!” Hermione’s enthusiastic holler and wave has half the heads in the Great Hall turning in his direction.

 _Great_. Assiduously ignoring the whispers and pointing fingers, Draco marches to the teachers’ table, keeping his eyes trained on his exquisite girlfriend. He nods hello to Luna as he slides in beside Hermione, robustly kissing her on the corner of her mouth.

“Draco… has something happened? You look a little strained,” Hermione props her chin on her hand, speaking quietly as she scrutinizes his drawn features. “Was Potions full-on? You had the Seventh Years all morning, right?”. She reaches out to stroke his forearm as it tenses on the gleaming cutlery.

“It was fine.” _Crap, that came out more abruptly than I’d intended._ Fashioning a close-lipped smile to his face, Draco tries again. “Nothing I can’t handle, _ma petite_. I didn’t have to do much, Kvothe knows what he’s about.”

Hermione withdraws her hand, her lovely whiskey-brown eyes clouded with concern. “OK.”

 _Bloody buggering hell, now I’ve upset her._ “I’m sorry, Hermione. I don’t mean to be gruff.” Moistening his dry mouth, Draco divulges, “One of the students left a toy skull and snake on my desk – they’d magicked the snake to curl through the skull holes, like– like a Dark Mark. Quite a clever bit of spellwork, actually.” His attempt to lighten the retelling of the incident goes over like a lead balloon.

“Who was it?!” Hermione launches herself upright, as though she fully intends to charge over to the offending pupil and administer a severe punishment in the middle of luncheon.

Gently tugging her back into her chair, Draco murmurs (in his most placatory tone), “Darling, please don’t worry about it. It was just a nasty little prank, nothing to get het up about. I’m guilty of more than my fair share of tormenting my professors, don’t forget.”

“Teenagers can be such arseholes,” Hermione (rather loudly) growls. “Do you know who it was?”.

“I can’t be certain; truly, it’s not important. How was your morning? Were your Third Years already au fait with Pythagoras’s theorem?”.

Completely ignoring his clunky change of topic, Hermione vows, “I _will_ find out who it was, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it; but please, Granger, let me deal with this. I’m certain the culprit wants to get a rise out of me, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction,” Draco sighs. “Besides, your Number Two Fan – Head Boy Joseph – went out of his way to loudly denounce the stunt as soon as he entered the classroom, as well as zapping the display into tiny pieces.”

“He did? What a lovely young man,” Hermione beams. “Why is he my ‘Number Two’ Fan?”

“Well, _I’m_ forever your primary Ardent Admirer, of course,” Draco risks a quick nip to her ear lobe, sobering his expression as Headmistress McGonagall lifts a quelling eyebrow in their direction.

“Don’t mind Minerva; she’s really very progressive,” Luna chimes in, leaning forward from Hermione’s other side. “Did you know she’s supporting MacRu founding a Hogwarts House Elf Union? Apparently she’s been encouraging the other elves to start one for ages, but no one wanted to put up their hand to take on the responsibility.”

Squinching closed his eyes, Draco sends up a fervid prayer to the universe at large that ‘MacRu’ haven’t already bitten off more than they can chew. _They haven’t yet worked here a full day…_

“That’s why you can actually see a few house elves serving luncheon, today,” Luna continues. “Look – there’s Mac now,” she indicates to the table at the far end of the cavernous space. “Isn’t he clever?”

Opening his eyes, Draco watches as Macdolas ‘dances’ a soup tureen across the wide table, grinning like an escapee gibbon. Ruibby stands at the next table over, earnestly consoling a crying First Year Gryffindor girl.

 _Minerva might regret her largesse before the year is out; Macdolas is going to cause so much pandemonium, and Ruibby could probably take over the running of this place if she ever truly wanted to,_ Draco smirks to himself.

His amusement is brusquely interrupted when a red envelope zooms through the Hall, dropping onto his empty plate with a discordant clatter. The Howler twitches irritably as Draco snatches it up. He tells Hermione, “Please– don’t follow me–” before bolting from the dining area, his face and ears aflame.

 _Talk about a walk – no,_ run _– of shame._ Once he’s clear of the Great Hall, Draco quickens his canter to a gallop, his feet instinctively taking him down a narrow passage and out a skinny side exit, the outline of the door barely discernible against the old masonry. The Howler is heating up in his tightened fist; Draco keeps running until he reaches an old oak tree near the bottom of the long grassed hill. Yanking open the horrid Howler, he fumbles for his wand as it begins to bellow.

**“DRACO MALFOY – YOU ARE A DEPRAVED, DESPICABLE _DEATH EATER_! YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS IMPARTING YOUR WICKED DARK KNOWLEDGE TO IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG MINDS–”**

The screaming magical red telegram is finally silenced when Draco hurls a ‘Confringo’ at the rotten missive, blasting it into nothingness. His sweating fingers slip on his wand as he leans back against the reassuringly broad tree trunk, heaving ragged breaths as old guilt and shame engulf him.

 _Maybe this anonymous harbinger of hate is right – maybe I should never have countenanced returning to Hogwarts… what if my dubious past reflects poorly on Hermione’s flourishing academic career? Fuck – I was so eager to merge our lives and careers, I didn’t give enough thought to the repercussions…_ His shoulders bow as he considers reassessing living and working at the castle.

_I could still buy us a nice home in Hogsmeade, and easily build on a studio; Hermione will be disappointed, but better that than she be tainted by association…_

“Boy, that Howler was a doozy, huh?” Neville Longbottom’s mellifluous voice interrupts Draco’s agonized musings. “My Gran’s sent me a few over the years, but I’ve been pretty lucky to not be savaged by prejudiced strangers. Nougat Chunk?” Neville rounds the wide trunk, shaking a Honeydukes bag invitingly.

“Nougat Chunk… what?” Draco dully replies.

Neville digs out a big lump of the sweet confection, diffidently offering it upon his palm. “My hands are clean, don’t worry,” he misinterprets Draco’s reluctance to partake.

“T-Thanks, Neville.” Popping the nougat into his mouth, Draco is glad its gooey texture makes speech impossible for a little while. Neville chomps into his own piece as the two men gaze out at the Scottish landscape.

When Neville speaks again, his words are quiet and sincere. “I’ve got a bit of a hidey-hole in the next tree over,” he jerks his dark head at the massive yew; a fringe of dense moss partially conceals the hollow within. “Sometimes… I find all the noise and people in the Great Hall a bit… too much, so the elves pack me a little picnic. They always give me enough to feed a giant, if you’re hungry. No pressure, of course.” The Gryffindor Herbology professor steps back with a shrug. “And the hollow’s bigger than it looks, you won’t have to sit in my lap or anything,” he laughs.

_I have to admit, hiding in a tree hollow sounds like frigging paradise, right now._

“I’d like that – lunch, I mean. Not sitting in your lap,” Draco’s lips curl in a wry smile. “No offence.”

Guffawing, Neville carefully pulls aside the moss, revealing a cosy nook, lit by four suspended candles. A dark blue and green tartan blanket covers the ground, a wicker basket open in its centre. Neville folds himself into a cross-legged stance with easy grace. “Help yourself, Draco.”

Copying Neville’s seated position, Draco reaches for a sandwich, surprised to find his appetite has recovered. _I guess I’ve been more stressed than I realized… though I wish I’d not spoiled Hermione’s joy over her first official teaching day by being a dramatic git. I’ll have to make it up to her, somehow..._

“My Gran didn’t really encourage talking about one’s feelings,” Neville comments, almost to himself. “Purebloods are supposed to be proper and phlegmatic at all times – well, I don’t have to tell _you_ that, do I?”.

Munching on his corned beef and mustard sandwich, Draco soberly nods.

“I reckon it’d take some adjustment, living and working together… having to routinely express your feelings, when your ingrained instincts are to bottle up the negative sentiments and deal with it yourself,” Neville continues. “I get that.”

“Yeah – I feel like a right louse for having some doubts… I’m raining on Hermione’s parade, and that’s the last thing I want,” Draco vehemently replies. “I despise the fact that my past is always going to come back to haunt me… haunt _us_ , now. What if the parents who object to my teaching appointments come after Hermione, too? She’s already copped flak for being my girlfriend… maybe I should just call it quits now, before anything else happens–”

“Bullshit.” The emphatic oath halts his self-pity party immediately. “Hermione _chose_ to be with you, just as she chose to come here to live and teach with you, Draco. She doesn’t support anyone or anything she doesn’t wholeheartedly believe in – trust me on that. You do her a great disservice by not having confidence in her faith in you.”

“But you just said you understood how it’s hard to open up!” Draco sputters.

Neville sighs. “Yeah – but I didn’t say you should stop trying, did I? You’re just going to have to find your big boy boots and pad them out with newspaper until they fit, if that’s what it takes to fully communicate and share your problems with your soul mate... your _magically soul-bonded mate_ ,” he stresses. “You’re a right lucky bastard, Draco.’

“Here’s another thing – these people who are set against you being here – do you really give a flying Fwooper what any of them think of you? Don’t allow their narrow-minded bias to ruin your dream, or sour your special, _blessed_ relationship with one of the loveliest women I’ve ever been lucky enough to call my friend.” Neville bites into a crisp red apple with vim, munching meditatively. “Stuff the lot of ‘em.”

Gulping down the last of his crusts, Draco stares at the draped verdant moss, his mind zinging through all of Neville’s indubitably reasonable arguments. _He’s spot-on: the only opinions that matter are those of the people who I love and respect… and I have a life partner now, though I still have some trouble believing our requited devotion is real, and not a lengthy fever dream. I should be talking to Hermione about all this, not moping in Neville’s hollowed haven._

Jumping to his feet, Draco somehow manages to avoid whacking his pale head on the ancient wood. “Thanks, Neville – for your eminently sound advice, as well as the food. You’re a bloody smart wizard, you know.”

Neville winks lazily, not bothering to rise as he pumps Draco’s proffered hand. “You’re welcome. Feel free to hole up in here any time you need a breather, or some thinking space.” He motions at the mossy ‘door’. “Go on then, go find your witch! Hurry up, before she sends out a search party and brings every curious bugger here to wreck the serenity,” he jests. “Sod off, already.”

Grinning, Draco starts sprinting uphill once he’s cleared the moss veil. He gracefully lopes back into the castle via the same small door, his mood considerably cheerier and more hopeful than when he’d fled. Entering the Great Hall in search of Hermione, he nearly cannons into a couple of little First Years. His sharp reflexes avoid a collision just as he hears the shorter boy excitedly proclaim,

“ – then the sword chopped off his _foot_! Professor Rahl said this was bound to happen, what with letting house elves visibly roam the castle willy-nilly. But then Headmistress McGonagall told Professor Rahl to kindly keep his uninformed opinions to himself, before she whisked Macdolas to the infirmary.”

 _Macdolas? Infirmary?? **‘Chopped off his foot’?!**_ Draco looms over the kid, urgently barking, “What happened? Macdolas is hurt?”. He steps back a foot as the boy quavers.

“Yes, sir – I didn’t see it, but Bruce Geoghegan was in the corridor and he saw the whole thing, he told Marianne Mathieson and she told–”

“Never mind all that – but was it _Macdolas_? One of the new elves?” Draco has to stop himself from shaking the information out of the gabbling lad.

“Yes, Bruce reckons the elf – Macdolas – was trying to get the sword loose from one of the suits of armour on the second floor but it fell off really suddenly and it was a lot sharper than anyone thought it would be, it went straight through the elf’s boot and everything and he fainted because of all the blood,” the boy informs, blue eyes agog. “Bruce ran and got the teachers and then he came and told everyone–”

Tearing through the Hall, his own gorge rising, Draco staves off his incipient panic attack as he flies toward the Infirmary. _Stupid, weapon-loving little ninny! Not even here two days but he manages to amputate his own foot! What if it’s permanent – what if even Madame Pomfrey can’t save the appendage– what if he– ?!_ His vision starts to darken around the edges as his legs keep churning. He is dimly aware of a pack of students scattering as he bursts into the sick bay’s foyer, eyes wild…

…Only to see Macdolas sitting up in the nearest bed, looking bright as a button as he daintily sips at a cup of steaming tea, his other gnarly hand grasping a chocolate digestive biscuit. Rapidly scanning him up and down, Draco sags in relief as he notes the only visible injury is a small bandage on Macdolas’s left big toe… his _intact_ left big toe.

Hermione detaches from the crowd gathered at the bedside, her arms wrapping Draco in a tender hug. Draco vaguely notes that Headmistress McGonagall, Luna, and Ruibby are also in attendance, as he instantaneously relaxes in her embrace.

“He’s alright, he’s going to be fine,” she murmurs into his ear, as the blood unpleasantly rushes back to Draco’s head. “Mac’s OK, _mon amour_. Everything’s alright, Draco. Come,” she leads him to one of the visitor’s chairs, Transfiguring it to a double seater with a quick whip of her wand. “Sit down, darling. I’ll get you some water.”

“No – please, just let me hold you,” Draco breathes. His voice tightens as he explains, “A boy in the Great Hall said he’d chopped off his foot– I ran here straightaway–”

“The power of the school grapevine,” Hermione buzzes a raspberry as she shakes her head in exasperation. “ _I_ was told he’d sawn off his fingers – I freaked out instantly. Luna had to threaten me with a judicious face slap,” she smiles at the blonde, who is standing on the other side of the bed, comforting a sniffling Ruibby. “Fortunately, we weren’t far away, I’d been trying to find you…”

“I’m so sorry, Hermione – I never meant to worry you with my histrionics.” Draco swallows hard. “I’d love the chance to speak with you about that; not right now – not here – but as soon as possible, please?”. His anthracite eyes rapidly blink as he anxiously peers into her hickory-brown ones.

“Of course – but let’s both assure ourselves of our elfish mischief-maker’s well-being, hmmm?” Hermione rejoins, her hand constantly raking through the hair on his nape. “Please reserve your scolding for later, sweetheart; I’ve a few choice things to say to Mac, too, but he’s safe, and Minerva already gave him a scathing tongue-lashing, once Madame Pomfrey assessed and treated his wound.”

“Did Madame Pomfrey have to re-attach his toe? He seems remarkably unaffected,” Draco frowningly observes.

“Um… no, not exactly,” Hermione hedges. “He was extremely lucky – the point of the sword sheared off his big toenail, but Madame Pomfrey said it will grow back as good as new, in time. There was a little blood loss, but she’s given him a restorative potion and said he should stay off that foot for the rest of the day. He doesn’t even need to stay in the ward overnight, which is great.”

 _Naughty, born-under-a-lucky-star little rascal._ Draco glares over Hermione’s shoulder as he realizes Macdolas is soaking up all the concerned attention like a three foot tall sponge. _Scaring us all half to death with his meddling foolishness!_

“Malfoy, your face will stay like that if the wind changes,” Hermione whispers. “Mac doesn’t mean to worry us – he’s intensely curious, and exuberant, you know. It’s why we love him so.”

“Love him?! I– I– I–” a grating screek emanates from Draco’s mouth as he furiously works his jaw. Burying his face back into Hermione’s abundant chestnut tresses, he mutters, “Merlin knows why – I _do_ dearly love the pesky wretch... I thought – I thought I was going to lose him… like I lost Dobby. I can’t– I never want to– ” 

“Oh, Draco – my darling Draco, my dearest love – I’m so sorry. I understand,” Hermione delicately rests her warm palm against his cool cheek. “I know, _mon coeur_.”

Uncaring of the inquisitive stares they are bound to be attracting, Draco impulsively captures her soft mouth in a prolonged, passionate kiss, pouring all of his tumultuous love and gratitude into the embrace. Hermione keenly responds, meeting him stroke for stroke and all but straddling his lap on the widened chair as their hands thirstily rove over each other’s shoulders, necks, and backs.

“Ahem! Professors Malfoy and Granger, I strongly recommend you avail yourselves of your current free period after luncheon to continue your… _discussion_ , in private,” Headmistress McGonagall’s clear tones effectively break apart their burgeoning clinch. Blushing a little, Draco catches Minerva’s eye, relieved to see it twinkling, though her expression stays stern.

“Erm… thank you, Headmistress,” a pinkened Hermione shuffles upright, bestowing a quick peck to Mac’s brow as she bids him goodbye. “Mac and Ruibby, we’ll come see you tonight in your suite.”

“Assuming Ruibby allows Macdolas to return to their communal quarters – Macdolas must work industriously to return to Ruibby’s good graces, after his puckish devilry causes her such distress!” Ruibby turns her face into Luna’s side, her agitated tears renewed.

“There, there,” Luna coos. “He’s a germ, but he’s still _your_ cherished germ, Ruibby.”

Draco busses a hard kiss into Mac’s rumpled red hair, bending to speak directly into the sprite’s wittering ear. “You’ve frightened at least a year off my lifespan today, Macdolas; for the love of snakes, stay out of trouble for the next eight hours, please. You’re a regular pain in my arse, but I never want you to come to any harm, alright?” .

“Master Malfoy– Master, Macdolas–” he chokes.

“Save it. Just rest up and apologize to your poor terrified girlfriend, you peanut.” Draco leans over to gently pat Ruibby’s hand, before he slides his arm around Hermione and nods farewell to the rest of the room.

“Thanks, guys.”

* * *

“Close your eyes, please.”

“Malfoy, you’ve already covered my eyes with your hands – it seems a tad redundant to have to close them,” Hermione argues, as they stand just before the open threshold of their tower bedroom.

“Always with the cheeky comeback,” Draco theatrically sighs. “Easy! I was kidding,” he defends, as she blindly reaches back to tickle his ribcage. “Ready? I was going to save this for tonight, but now is better, I think.” _It’s well past time I focused on my lovely witch, today._

“Stop stalling and show me my surprise, please,” Hermione whinges.

Kissing the sweet lateral curve of her neck, Draco whispers, “Surprise, _ma petite_ ,” as he moves his shielding hands from her eyes, resting them upon her hips.

“Oh, Draco!” she gasps; he can hear the pleased wonder in her voice, though he cannot see her face. “It’s beautiful!”.

Their bedroom is ablaze with tiny shimmering gold and silver magicked bulbs, spelling out “Congratulations on Your First Day, Professor Granger”. A bunch of sweet-smelling lilacs in an earthenware jug sit on Hermione’s chest of drawers, their heady fragrance wafting about the bedroom.

“Lilacs signify growth, progress, and wisdom; all of which you already have in spades, of course. I just want you to know how proud I am of your achievements, and how much I adore your huge, sexy– ”

“Draco!”

“ –brain,” he ends the sentence with a smirk. “How rude of you to think I meant something crude, Professor!”

Hermione turns, playfully smacking his chest. “Thank you, _Professor_ ,” she tips up her head to kiss him, wrinkling her nose as he steps away.

“You’ve missed your other gift,” he points to the left side of the vase, where lies a slim rectangular box, festooned with a gold ribbon.

“Oh, goodie!” Hermione pounces on the present, picking off the ribbon with painstaking care and setting it aside. Flipping open the box, she exclaims, “A gold fountain pen! With my name engraved! Draco, you didn’t have to do this!”. Tracing the calligraphic inscription ( _‘Professor Granger’_ ) with a reverent finger, she looks at him with tear-wet eyes.

“It’s a special fountain pen, actually… I’ve enspelled it to automatically refill its ink from its matching inkwell,” Draco nods to the other little box beside the flowers. “I’m in charge of keeping the receptacle full, of course. I’m aware you are perfectly adept at flourishing a quill, but I know you also enjoy using a well-crafted pen, darling. Oh, and I wanted the pen to be inscribed, “Professor _Hermione_ Granger’, but there wasn’t quite enough room,” he regretfully states.

Picking up the pen to test its heft and fit in her fingers, Hermione stutters, “Draco – this is a _solid gold_ pen.”

“Yes?”

“ _It’s a solid gold pen_ ,” she pointedly repeats, brunette brows drawn as he indifferently shrugs.

“It’s the best – you deserve nothing less, _mon âme_.”

“Oof! I can’t believe you sometimes!” she huffs.

“This does seem to be a rather roundabout way of saying ‘thank you, Draco’,” he drawls.

Flinging her arms around him, Hermione tips down his head to stare directly into his chagrined eyes. “Thank you, Draco… my wondrous, thoughtful, ridiculously indulgent wizard!”.

“You’re welcome,” he imperiously nods. “Perhaps a little kiss for your nice boyfriend, yes?” he taps his bottom lip.

“Nope, not yet – I have a little something for Mr Flash-the-Cash, too.” She disengages to rifle through her bedside drawer, beaming as she hands over a medium sized box, wrapped in silver paper. “It’s not fancy, or precious metal – just stainless steel – but I hope you like it.”

In direct contrast to Hermione’s meticulous treatment of the gold ribbon, Draco ruthlessly shreds the metallic paper and prises open the cardboard box.

“It’s a go-cup, for hot drinks,” Hermione bashfully supplies. “I know what a bear you are without regular coffee infusions, Malfoy… I enchanted it with a permanent warming charm, although you can switch it to a cooling charm in summer, if you like.” She turns it over to show him the front. “I guess we really are on the same wavelength, huh?”.

The smooth metal is engraved with the title, _‘Professor Malfoy’_. Draco runs his trembling finger over the lettering, before he clutches the cup in one hand, reeling in Hermione with the other. He seats her beside him on the wide bed, his heart thumping with intense emotion.

“I will treasure it always, Hermione. Thank you,” he rasps, laying a feathery kiss on her mouth. “I apologize for dashing out of lunch like a maniac – I was already worked up over the toy skull incident, and then when that Howler arrived, I let my moody fears and latent hang-ups get the better of my common sense.”

Hermione winds her hands around his neck, glumly chewing at her lip. “Draco, please talk with me, when things like this happen in future… I know all of this – us – might take some getting used to, but I’m here to share your burdens, too.”

“I know – I ran into Neville Longbottom, and he set me straight,” Draco admits, chuckling at Hermione’s flabbergasted face. “He’s a savvy, cool guy, it turns out.”

Hermione harrumphs. “Neville is a supremely cool, _exceedingly_ good egg, and he always has been; he was the first friend I ever made here, you know.”

“I thought his toad Trevor was your first Wizardly friend,” Draco grins. “Pax! Anyway, I’m going to take his sage advice and talk to you, instead of playing the dipshit and running away to brood. I didn’t want to derail your elation over your first day of teaching, and yet I almost succeeded in doing just that. I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“Draco, you’ve nothing to be sorry for; I’ve been guilty of not communicating my fears and issues, too,” she earnestly answers. “I’m so used to solving my own problems – and being my own support crew – that it’s hard to let you in, sometimes. And we won’t always be on the same page, emotionally: which is all the more reason for us to take turns helping one another over the rough spots. You’ve not ruined anything, so put that daft idea out of your head right now, mister.” She bares her ivories in mock ferocity.

“Gods, you’re amazing, Hermione… I can’t believe you’re real, sometimes,” Draco shakes his head in wonderment. “Kiss me, _mon adorable petite amie de genie_.”

“ _Avec plaisir, mon charmant petit ami de genie_.” Hermione puckers up before enthusiastically planting her lips on his hungry mouth.

Moulding her to his chest, Draco rests his back against the mattress, wishing they had more than a few more minutes to canoodle. As always, his spirits boost straight to ‘enraptured’ the moment their bodies and mouths touch.

 _I’d suffer through a thousand stupid, petty Howlers to earn the right to stay here with my extraordinary, wonderful witch,_ he vows. _Neville was absolutely correct – ‘stuff the lot of ‘em.’_

Nestling Hermione closer in his arms, Draco sets about showing Hermione just how much he loves her… one sublime, inflamed kiss at a time.

* * *

**French translation:**

_Bien sûr –_ of course.

 _mon adorable petite amie de genie_ – my adorable genius girlfriend

 _Avec plaisir, mon charmant petit ami de genie_ – With pleasure, my charming genius boyfriend.


	85. Profession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much gratitude and thanks to my lovely beta reader and dear friend @Recoveringjaddict5, for all her help and encouragement.
> 
> And thank you to @CarrieMaxwell for reminding me that Blaise is indeed 'dating a cop'!
> 
> Thanks very much to all of you for reading. I hope you're staying safe and well in this crazy world.
> 
> xoxo VJ

__

_Monday 30 March 2003: AM_

Gus takes a steadying breath before firmly rapping on Harry’s office door. _Keep it brief and professional… there’s no need to feel embarrassed – **I** certainly haven’t acted improperly, and this issue needs to be addressed now. Right. _

“Come in,” Harry’s pleasant voice sounds. Opening the door, Gus fixes a polite smile to her tense face; her expression becomes more natural as she observes Harry’s current state of unmistakeable joyfulness.

 _He looks positively radiant… no prizes for guessing the reason why._ Gus effortfully smothers her growing amusement. “Good morning, sir– Harry.”

Bounding upright, Harry all but dances around his desk. “Gus! Isn’t it a beautiful day? I mean, you know– for a Monday, not that Mondays are inherently worse than other days, just, well… you know…” his hip bangs into one of the visitor’s chairs as he careens to a stop, grinning sheepishly. “Erm, good morning.”

“Had an enjoyable weekend, Harry?” Gus can’t resist the mild tease, snickering as her boss immediately pinkens and ducks his head. “How’s Pansy?”.

“Pansy’s great – she’s just _great_ ,” Harry all but trills, blushing more fiercely as Gus openly laughs at his boyish enthusiasm. “Shuddup,” he mumbles, though he joins in her mirth. “You’re here even earlier than usual, Gus: is everything OK?”. Harry’s easy manner shifts to soberly attentive as Gus sighs deeply.

“No… it’s not, actually.” Without going into detail about exactly what she was doing with Blaise in the changing rooms, Gus quickly sketches out the confrontation with Kolton after Saturday’s game. She concludes, “I wish to formally request a change of partner, sir; I no longer believe that working closely with Auror Faulkner is in my best interests, given his recent actions.”

“I agree,” Harry frowns, pinching at the bridge of nose, beneath his glasses. “Are you alright, Gus? Has anything else happened? Your health and safety is paramount, and you have my full support, always – both as a colleague, and a friend. I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner– ”

“Harry, stop. Please. You are (and always have been) a wonderful boss, and none of this… situation, is your fault. Kolton overstepped, and that’s completely on him,” Gus shakes her head, striving to stay composed as her anger and disappointment at her once-trusted friend and partner rises. “I understand if you feel it would be better for me to transfer to a different supervisor– ”

“No. Absolutely not.” It is Harry’s turn to interrupt. “Do you wish to file a formal complaint? It isn’t necessary to effect a change of Auror partnership, of course, but it would mean that an investigation is automatically launched,” he advises. “Sexual harassment and discrimination is not tolerated in the Ministry, Gus.” Gone is the light-hearted swain of a few minutes ago, replaced by a grim-faced, experienced wizard.

“Harry, I don’t think that filing a harassment complaint is necessary – and Kolton hasn’t really said or done anything to warrant a formal reprimand,” Gus slowly replies.

“Yet,” Harry rejoins. “I have noticed his proprietary attitude towards you, in the past – I’m sorry, I should have paid closer attention.” He scratches at his red robe collar in frustration.

“You’re not responsible for the whole world, Harry!” Gus barks, before her brain catches up with her mouth. _Did I just yell at my boss… Harry Freaking Potter! Oops._

“Sorry – well, it’s true, though,” Gus lamely amends. “Some days I wonder how you can stand upright, what with the troubles of the world resting solely upon your shoulders.”

“Don’t sugar-coat it, Gus,” Harry grumbles, though he is wryly smiling. “Tell me what you really think.” He waves off her bumbling apology. “It’s fine, I’m painfully aware of my ‘hero complex’. Listen, HR’s preferred policy in this type of situation is to enforce some kind of ‘mediation’ meeting–”

“ _Not_ doing it–”

“ – but I think that’s ridiculous, so we’re not doing it,” Harry seamlessly concludes, ignoring Gus’s emphatic opinion. “I’ll go down there straightaway and request a change of partners, and inform Faulkner myself, once it’s been processed.”

“Thank you, sir– Harry,” Gus exhales heavily in relief. _I shouldn’t feel guilty about this; Kolt’s brought it on himself by being a territorial dick… I made it perfectly clear to him when we were first partnered that I wasn’t interested in anything other than a professional, platonic relationship._ Her stress-stiffened neck relaxes a fraction.

“No need to thank me; and please keep working on leaving out the ‘sir’, OK?” Harry smiles. A fluttering noise turns their heads, as a purple aeroplane memo squeezes itself beneath the doorframe and zooms straight at Harry. His Seeker reflexes grab it just before it slams into his breastbone.

“It’s past time the Ministry got with the program and embraced using computers and emails,” Harry absentmindedly muses, as he unfolds the flapping missive. “We’ve had two eye injuries this month alone from overzealous ruddy memos.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Gus begins to turn for the door, as Harry’s eyes dance rapidly over the text.

“No, wait – this concerns you too,” Harry says. “It’s from Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes: he’s been given the go-ahead to begin effecting international arrests for Operation Acromantula, and he’s ordered us to liaise with local authorities in Western Europe for the rest of the week.” He looks up from the parchment, his green eyes a-glitter with excitement and stern determination. “We’re going to get these depraved grubs, Gus – every last one of them.”

“That’s fantastic news, Harry!” Gus’s mouth curves in a triumphant smile. _This– **this** is what I’ve trained for, what I believe in… the chance to see justice served, to redress the balance… the opportunity to make a real difference in the ongoing battle between the dark and the light._

“You bet – but we’ll be gone until at least Thursday night,” Harry turns over the page, frowning slightly. “It’s extremely late notice; I do understand if you can’t arrange for child care for Tavi–”

“It’ll be fine, I’ll ask Mrs Green to look after her, she’s done it before.” Gus crosses her fingers behind her back as Harry’s worried look begins to alleviate. _There’s no way I’m going to miss out on seeing this case through – and the experience will be invaluable._ A small twinge of regret fires as she considers that Kolt is going to miss out on the ‘action’. _Not your problem, Augusta._

“Well, you’d best ask and start making the arrangements ASAP – and pack for our trip,” Harry starts rummaging through the piles of paperwork on his desk. “I’m going straight to HR to sort out the transfer, then I’ll tell Kolt’s replacement to get him or herself ready for the trip and bring them up to speed, too – where’s a quill or just a bloody pencil when you need one, I swear they grow legs and walk out of here!” Harry rattles open desk drawers in frustration.

Plucking a stubby pencil from an overstuffed letter holder, Gus quips as she pushes it into his palm, “Hiding in plain sight?”.

“Go on, off you go! Meet me back here by eleven o’clock, we’re to convene with Leo and his team at half past – owl me if there’s a problem, please.” Harry waves her away, totally focused on scribbling down illegible notes on the back of the purple memo.

Closing the door gently, Gus creates a quick mental checklist.

  1. _Go home, ask Nella to look after Tavi until I return, pack a small bag_
  2. _Drop by Tavi’s school, tell her what’s happening, make sure she’s OK_
  3. _Return to Ministry, revise the Acromantula files, meet new partner_
  4. _Tell Blaise I’m going away, ask him to please keep an eye on Tavi and Mrs Green…_
  5. _Kiss my boyfriend goodbye._



She isn’t aware she’s grinning hugely until she catches sight of her dopey face in the reflective surface of the elevator.

 _My boyfriend… Blaise Zabini. My funny, big-hearted, irreverently sexy **boyfriend**. Harry was correct… it truly _is _a beautiful Monday._

* * *

_Monday 30 March 2003: PM_

“Excuse me, Professor Malfoy…” the soft, tentative voice of the Hufflepuff schoolgirl is almost lost beneath the burbling chatter of the art classroom. Her slightly raised hand falters as Draco moves toward her easel, straining his brain to remember her name… _Savannah? Johanna? Julianna!_ Julianna Campbell _, that’s it._

“Yes, Miss Campbell?” He steps a little closer and smiles reassuringly, alarmed at her instinctive cringe when he makes eye contact; her dark brown orbs are round with anxiety. _Maybe I should let Cecily handle this…_ Draco’s eyes flicker to the front of the Seventh Year Art classroom, where Professor Benson is busy (happily) arguing the pros and cons of gouache versus acrylic with a couple of students. _Merde_.

“Oh… well, I was just wondering… that is, I can’t seem to…” Julianna gestures helplessly between her half-finished canvas and the still life on a small, elevated table in the middle of the classroom: three peaches in a wooden bowl, beside a half-full water glass and an uneven pile of Knuts.

Draco regards Julianna’s composition. She has sketched in and painted the coins and fruit with no small talent; a quite delightful depiction of realism, with some intriguing impressionist elements in the treatment of light and blended hues. The water glass, however, is clearly the problem.

“I’ve tried to block it in – but it’s not really anything, is it?” Julianna dejectedly mumbles, every word quieter than the one before. “I don’t know…”

“I always had trouble with reflections and glass, until a teacher showed me a simple way around it,” Draco keeps his tones low and calm and his eyes trained on the still life. “Madame Auclair said that our brains often fight our eyes. We’re told water is colourless, invisible, right? But look again: that glass over there contains many colours, and shapes… diffused and distorted, but they certainly exist. See how the right side has those warm undertones, from the peaches behind it? And how the black of the table softens to dark grey, in the centre?”.

“Yes… I see it!” Julianna nods eagerly, picking up a slim charcoal stick and running it swiftly across the white space in the middle of her canvas.

Barely perceptible movement to his left; Draco registers Head Boy Joseph gingerly shuffling closer, his big ears almost twitching as he strains to overhear their conversation. _Interesting_ …

“OK, that’s great, Miss Campbell. Once you’ve finished sketching, I’ll talk you through Madame Auclair’s techniques for selecting and working in the colours. What you’ve painted is excellent, so far – it reminds me a little of 'Pesaches and Almonds’ by Renoir: are you a fan of his work, perhaps?” Draco gently enquires.

“I am – thank you, Professor,” Julianna’s deft linework pauses as she smiles from beneath her short crop of riotous jet ringlets, her back straightening from its previous defensive hunch. “I’d love to see more of his work in person… the British Museum houses some of his prints and drawings, but no paintings,” she wistfully states.

“Well, the Musée d'Orsay in Paris has the very finest collection of Impressionist works – you must visit it,” Draco urges, his lips curling in a fond smile at his memories of practically haunting the museum during his stay in the City of Lights. “Renoir, Manet, Cezanne… Monet, Degas, Seurat, Van Gogh… it’s utterly magnificent.”

“Oh, well… I hope to… one day.” Julianna turns back to her sketching, seeming subdued again as she shakes her voluminous hair over her face.

“Julianna, your painting looks wonderful,” Joseph appreciatively murmurs, bending down until his tall form is level with her seated one. Like Draco, he trains his sight on the canvas instead of the skittish girl. “I’m having trouble with the water glass, too; would you mind if I brought over my easel to listen in, please?”.

“Um– of course… Joseph,” she whispers, cheeks burning through her concealing curls. “If you like… I don’t– I don’t mind.”

 _Hmmm…_ Draco crosses his arms behind his back, intrigued with the little by-play as Joseph nearly trips over his lanky legs in his haste to set up beside the sweet, shy, Hufflepuff. _Looks to me like Head Boy McGrath has a bad case of Lovestruck Pining… remains to be seen whether the diagnosis is Requited or Unrequited._

Judging from the jittery peeks Julianna is taking at Joseph, the attraction isn’t all one-sided. Her hand trembles as she lays down the charcoal stick. _By Helga, she’s a nervous little poppet,_ Draco worries. _I hope young Joseph can see that for himself… and that he treads cautiously…_

His fears are allayed as he notes how the schoolboy is wholly respectful and constantly aware of Julianna’s personal space boundaries and her obvious discomfort with loud, sudden noises. Joseph takes great pains to speak softly, keeping his movements slow and steady (albeit a tad awkward), as he wrangles his easel into position.

 _He’s absolutely gaga for Miss Campbell; look at him, trying so hard not to steal stealthy glimpses at her, while she does the same. Hermione would be squealing at the rank cuteness of this pair, if she were here._ Draco swallows back his amusement as he realizes that Joseph reminds him a little of himself at this age… _though the lad possesses more courage and sensitivity than I ever did. I never did apologize to him, did I? Crap._

“Mister McGrath, a word?” Draco leads him to the rear of the classroom before he can rethink his decision. “I apologize for being hard on you, in Headmistress McGonagall’s office, when we met. I had no right to be so… touchy, about Professor Granger. I’m– well, I’m a bit of a jealous idiot, when it comes to my beloved. I’m sorry, it was deeply foolish of me, and I was out of line. It won’t ever happen again.

“I understand, sir – I do,” Joseph stoutly replies, his eyes seeking out Julianna’s form. “I mean, if I had a – a girlfriend, I think I’d feel exactly the same way… I’m sure of it, in fact.”

“Mmmm… she’s special to you, isn’t she? Miss Campbell,” Draco presses, biting down on his smirk as Joseph’s eyes wheel. “It’s alright, I won’t say a word; I’ve been there, trust me.”

“Julianna– she’s– she’s my friend– we’re– we’re friendly, that’s all,” the schoolboy sputters. “It’s not– she’s not–”

“Easy there, Jackdaw, I’m not about to expose you. I admire you, in fact… just don’t wait five years, or for a miracle to drop Miss Campbell at your feet, alright?” Draco sighs, shrugging at Joseph’s bemused countenance. “Never mind, lad. You’re on the right track, OK?”.

“Um… OK?” Joseph dutifully repeats. “Can I go back to my painting now, Professor?”.

“Just one more thing, McGrath: thank you, for what you did this morning – with that skull/snake prank, I mean. I–I appreciate your support. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you did.”

The youth shrugs. “Unlike some of these chumps, I’ve read the history books, and the newspapers, sir; and I’ve talked to the few people who were willing to speak about their experiences, with You-Know– with Voldemort, I mean. I don’t blindly parrot learned prejudice and hatred when the truth of the War was obviously vastly different, and much more complicated. And I won’t stand idly by when I see cruel bullies at work. You’ve no need to thank me, Professor Malfoy.” His blue-grey eyes flame with a quiet righteousness, strikingly at odds with his usual easy-going deportment.

 _Now I see why he was made Head Boy… smart, strong, and a fierce terror when roused_.

“Er – OK. Right. Carry on.” Draco vaguely points back to Joseph’s easel, suppressing another smile when he catches Julianna peeping at the boy. She whips her head back to her art fast enough to crick her neck. _Hermione is going to eat up this little romance like Belgian truffles._

“Everything going well back here? Enjoying your first day on the job, Draco?” Professor Benson has wandered over to join him, wiping paint from her fingers with a damp rag.

Gazing over the buzzing group of students, Draco sincerely replies, “All’s well, Cecily; and yes… Yes, I am.”

* * *

_Monday 30 March 2003: AM_

“Gussie! By all the Greek Goddesses, how I’ve missed you!” Blaise cries, bundling her into a fervent hug the moment she steps through his office doorway. “How is it that you’re even more gorgeous, every time I see you? I know it’s not witchcraft – nope, it’s all _you_ , my wonderful, clever, amazing, beautiful girlfriend.” He brushes lipping kisses all over her forehead and cheeks, his gentle hands light on her hips as she giggles.

 _Me… **giggling** … I know I sound ridiculous, but I can’t stop…_ Gus yanks the man to settle flush against her front, her hands gripping his tight buns as she kisses him back, their noses clumsily knocking.

“I saw you only yesterday,” Gus gasps, as Blaise ignores her willing mouth in favour of licking down her neck. “You couldn’t possibly have missed me all that much – and you’re a terribly accomplished flatterer, Blaise Zabini.”

“Well, yes,” he moves his lips upward to tickle at her earlobe, “I _am_ blessed with a silver tongue, but I never need to employ it when describing you, _tesoro_ ; your natural beauty and grace will always outshine my paltry words of awed praise and appreciation, Augusta Meredith Gilmont.” Blaise pushes back a little, his dark eyes lustrous with unambiguous candour as he beams down at her flushed face.

 _Blundering bandicoots – I’m going to need angina medication, if he keeps this up._ Desperate for a subject change, Gus bleats, “How do you know my middle name, anyway?”.

She answers her own question as Blaise clams up, looking distinctly shifty. “By snooping in my personnel records – the same way how you found out my address. It’s a good thing I like and trust you, Blaise _Nosy-Parker_ Zabini,” she prods a finger into his hard chest, pretending more annoyance than she feels. “Stalker, much?”.

“Gus – I would never, ever stalk you! I’m very sorry, I know I went too far.” His contrite expression doesn’t last, as he rumbles, “It’s ‘Nario’ by the way – my middle name. Gus, you… you like me? And trust me? Really?”. Blaise’s big, guileless grin is firmly back in place on his handsome face.

“No – I’m stringing you along simply to sweet talk you into bed and have my nefarious way with you,” Gus deadpans, guffawing as his glorious ebony eyes grow comically huge. “You should see your face! Steady on, I’m only half-joking.”

“I’m completely available for all and any bed-based nefariousness… just so you know,” Blaise replies at last, croaking a little. “Wait – ‘half-joking’? My poor heart, Gussie!”.

“Let me kiss it better,” Gus croons, sliding her hands up his back and unconsciously licking her lips in anticipation. “Hang on – no, first I’ve got to tell you something.” Reluctantly, she steps back a pace, ignoring his whine of complaint. “Don’t distract me with that pretty pout of yours, please. I have to go away for work today, Blaise; Head Auror Pritchard-Hawes wants us to travel to Western Europe to help with the international roofie plot arrests. We’re leaving just after lunch, and Harry thinks we’ll be gone until at least Thursday evening.”

“Can I come? Alright, I knew that was a long shot,” Blaise sighs, his thumbs delicately caressing the spot behind her ears that makes her want to purr like a sleepy moggy. “I’m so proud of you, and pleased for your career advancement, Gussie… but you know I’m going to miss you like mad, _mia bella guerriera._ Please promise me you’ll be safe, and perhaps send me an owl, when you can?”.

“Of course I will, Blaise… I’m– I’m going to miss you – a lot, you know,” Gus gulps out the admission, flinging herself at him and pouring her whirling emotions into a rib-squashing hug. _I wish I could tell him how much his presence in my boring old life already means to me… I wish I didn’t still feel so leery of being emotionally vulnerable. Ugh, all these feelings!_ She chuffs a wry laugh against his exquisitely tailored black suit.

“What’s so funny? Thinking of me being thoroughly miserable without you, Gussie? I will be, you know.” Blaise’s voice is devoid of mirth, his expressive dark eyes sad as they meet hers. “I’ll be counting the minutes until your return, _dolcezza_.”

Feeling more than a little gobsmacked by his tender declaration, Gus stares fiercely at his sable tie, willing away her silly tears. _Do **not** start crying – yeah, OK, the man’s sweeter than the finest honey, but there’s no need to turn into a mushy, simpering fangirl over him._

“Gussie? Are you worried about having to work with Faulkner? Has he said or done something nasty, after you put a flea in his fat ear on Saturday?” Blaise urgently asks, obviously having misinterpreted her continued silence.

“No, I spoke with Harry this morning, and he arranged for Kolt to be temporarily assigned to a different partner. My new colleague is Soledad Rana, I briefly met her a quarter of an hour ago. She seems pretty cool, and knows her stuff. You don’t have to worry about me, Blaise.” She hesitates before softly adding, “I’m glad you do, though. Would you do me a favour, please?”.

“You need but name it; consider it done, my Gussie,” Blaise heartily vows. “Anything your heart desires, _mia amata_.”

“Blaise – you can’t just blindly agree!” Gus chuckles, her mild exasperation overcome by his puppyish eagerness to please her. “What if I asked you to – I don’t know – break into Gringotts, or something?”. She lightly smacks his broad chest, her palm lingering on his delectably warm, defined musculature. _He must have a dedicated exercise regimen, to look and feel **this** fit…_ Caught up in a vivid daydream about a shirtless Blaise sweating up a storm in a dimly-lit gymnasium ( _skipping rope, perhaps?_ ), Gus almost misses his reply.

“Well… then I’d have to think about… the best ways to break into Gringotts,” he ripostes, hitting her with the full force of his mega-watt smile. “No favour is ever too great, if you ask it of me, sweetheart.” He looks down. “You can pet me with your other hand, too, if you like; that feels rather wonderful,” he nods to where her right palm is still rhythmically stroking his pecs through his opened black suit jacket.

Gus yanks away her fingers before they actually slip open his shirt buttons. “Just checking for… irregularities,” she wildly fibs. “I thought you had a– lump.”

“It’s called a nipple, Gussie.” The amused undertone in Blaise’s deep voice is infuriatingly smug, as is his widening smirk. “Nubbin, papilla, mamilla, _tettarella_ –”

“Cut it out– I know what it is,” Gus grumbles, as heat rises up from her neckline. “Do you want to hear this favour I’ve asked, or not?”.

She carries on without awaiting his response. “Would you please check in on Tavi and Mrs Green, every now and then? Nella’s looked after Tavi for a few days before, and she’s perfectly capable, naturally – but I’d feel better, knowing they can ask you for help, if they do need any. If you don’t mind… depending on if you can fit it in– ”

“Of course! I swear to you I’ll drop around every day – maybe I could loan them one of my owls, for emergencies – damn, I wish you had a Floo at your flat, the council never have to know if we make a few necessary building tweaks – hang on, I get _paid_ to schmooze through the proper channels! I’ll put in an application through the Muggle Liaison office and I reckon I can push through the exemption order by the end of the day,” Blaise animatedly babbles, whirling to rifle through his filing cabinet.

“Blaise, there’s no need for all that! I’ve already applied for Extension Charms for the apartment, and been repeatedly denied,” Gus sighs, laying a steadying hand on his arm. “I don’t plan on us living there forever, anyway. And much as I appreciate your offer of a borrowed owl, there are no pets allowed; not to mention, explaining a swooping messenger owl coming and going would present more problems than it solves. Hold out your hand,” she slips hers into her robe pocket.

He complies immediately, blinking down at the small black mobile phone she presents. It looks absurdly small cradled in his big mitt.

“It’s a mobile phone; I usually take it away with me on work trips, to keep in contact with Nella and Tavi, but I’d rather entrust it to you, this time,” Gus explains. “I hope you don’t mind, I already told them both to call or text you if they have any problems… it’s pre-programmed with Nella’s number, see?”. She presses a few buttons to highlight the correct menu option. “I warned off Tavi from sending you dozens of messages, she’s mildly obsessed with technology and usually commandeers the phone from Nella. Is this OK, Blaise?”. Gus worries at her bottom lip with her left incisor. _I should have checked with him beforehand…_

“’OK’? Gussie, I’m honoured – truly honoured,” Blaise whispers, swallowing convulsively. “Thank you… this means more to me than you know… this means I’m really _family_ ,” he speaks the final phrase mostly to himself, his lean fingers curling around the mobile device. He visibly gathers himself to ask, “Would you mind giving me a quick tutorial, please? I understand the basics of the technology, but that’s all.”

Heart swollen by how evidently touched Blaise is, Gus manages a jerky nod before swiftly running him through the call and text functions. He listens intently, picking up the gist of it after only a few demonstrations. _He really is a very clever, capable man – I’m ashamed of myself for ever thinking him shallow and lazy, Gus thinks. And he’s so caring and kind…_

Once Blaise is satisfied that he knows how to competently operate the mobile, he tucks it securely into his inside jacket pocket.

“I fully charged it last night, but if it does get low on power, just ask Tavi to give it some more juice, as Nella’s is identical,” Gus adds. _I know I’m stalling on saying goodbye… it’s only for a few days. It’s fine._ _The time will fly by, especially considering how busy we’re going to be._

“Gussie… please promise me you’ll be careful?” Blaise stares intently into her topaz eyes, threading his fingers through hers. “You’re a total kick-arse, cool-as-a-cucumber killer cat, and I have the utmost confidence in you – but I worry about you, darling.”

“I’m not sure about your mixed metaphors there, but I’ll take all that as a compliment,” Gus jokes. “I promise I won’t take any silly risks, Blaise. You don’t need to worry about me, _orsacchiotto_.” _Eh, I hope I pronounced that right…_

“’Teddy bear’?! I’m your teddy bear! Oh, Gussie!” Blaise actually picks her up and dances them about his office as she clings to his neck and laughs helplessly. 

“Your teddy bear Blaisey is always going to worry about you – I guess that’s part and parcel of wooing a cop,” Blaise stops gallivanting as he processes his own words. “ _Cazzo_ – I’m dating a _cop_ ,” he breathes in astonishment as he settles her atop his fancy desk.

“Mmm… I did wonder when that was going to sink in. Do you have something to confess, Mr Zabini?” Gus teases.

“Yes, I’d like to report a crime – Auror Gilmont has stolen my heart,” he clutches at the named organ as she groans. “Too cheesy? Nah, too much is never enough with me.” Blaise links his hands behind her waist, his beautiful, generous lips drifting to within a few millimetres of hers.

“I should go… Kiss me, Blaise,” Gus closes the maddening gap as he happily acquiesces. She experiences a profound, primitive tug that resonates throughout her yearning body, her nerves immediately held in thrall to his touch and taste and smell… even his voice, as he hums in pleasure. Their tongues sensually tangle, their hands avidly stroking exposed skin and gripping strong young muscles.

Watching him through passion-narrowed eyes, Gus delights in how thoroughly focused Blaise appears: utterly concentrated on her reactions, each of her moans and rapt shudders resulting in minute adjustments on his part, as he accordingly adapts the pressure and glide of his lips and fingers. She whimpers as he wedges himself a little closer, his hardness bumping against her aching core.

“Sorry, sorry– I’m crazy for you, Gussie,” he groans, his eyes flying open in surprise as she holds him in place.

“Ditto, Blaisey – just a few more minutes, OK?” she dives back in, fascinated by the softness of his full lips as they firmly fuse with hers in another drugging kiss. Their clothed bodies writhe frenziedly on the desk; only the remembrance that she foolishly failed to shut the door behind her upon entry keeps Gus from pulling him atop her.

 _He’s right – too much is never enough – the more I get of Blaise Nario Zabini, the more I want – no, the more I bloody **need** , _Gus realizes. _Wretchedly sexy, darling hottie that he is…_ “More, Blaise… please…”

They finally spring apart as heavy footsteps sound down the corridor. Gus frantically pats at her ruffled hair and clothes, stifling a wild snicker as she takes in Blaise’s ravished, kiss-drunk appearance. His jacket is hanging halfway down his arms, his tie flipped over his shoulder, and his dark umber eyes are groggy with barely-banked desire. As for his pants… he turns to make a rapid adjustment.

“I’d best get going, before Harry or Soledad come looking for me,” Gus mumbles as she wobbles off the desk. Blaise instantly places a hand to her hip to walk her to the door; she flashes him a grateful smile.

“Take care, _mia cara ragazza_ ,” he bequeaths a final, delicate kiss to her mouth before raining two more on each of her hot cheeks. “My warrior cop… my beautiful girl. See you soon, Gussie.”

“See you soon, Blaise… _il mio orsacchiotto_.” Gus can’t stop herself from bussing his glorious lips once more, before dashing from the room. Her feet sound unnaturally loud to her own ears as she hustles down the hallway.

 _I won’t look back… that’s soppy. I don’t do_ soppy _._

Her resolve lasts until the corner; she chances a teensy glimpse over her shoulder.

Blaise’s hands are grabbing the lintel as though it’s the only thing stopping him from chasing after her, his eyes burning as he watches her departure.

Internally groaning at her lack of self-restraint, Gus properly turns to blow him a two-handed kiss.

His overjoyed smile as he plucks the invisible smooches out of the air is like watching the sun rise. Gus files away the unforgettable image as she quickens her pace back to Harry’s office.

_Ah, hell… I’m wallowing in soppiness now! What’s even more amazing is that I don’t regret it – not one whit._

* * *

_Monday 30 March 2003: PM_

Lifting the lid on the large silver cloche, Hermione sniffs appreciatively at the creamy chicken, bacon and mushroom stew. _Perfect. The elves have outdone themselves, as ever._ She checks the clock, her gleeful anticipation rising at the thought of Draco’s imminent arrival to their quarters. _Unless he was unavoidably delayed, he should be here right about–_

The door swings open; Hermione is enveloped in Draco’s loving hug before she can complete her thought, her pulse inevitably rocketing in his presence.

“ _Ma petite_ , my Hermione – I missed you so,” Draco proclaims, his words slightly muffled into her frizzed hair. The happy grin on his face dispels her concern over his not-so-fabulous start to the first day of teaching.

“How are you, sweetheart? How did your afternoon classes go? Just give me a minute to wash my hands and I’ll escort you down to the Great Hall,” he sets down his satchel beside the bookcase.

“Oh, my afternoon was great – the Fourth Years are very switched-on, and they even gave me some homework – I had to stop by the library to pick up a new textbook on Euler-Lagrange equations, after Chandra Gill raised some intriguing questions about temporal evolution of spherical systems… never mind, your eyes are glazing,” Hermione smiles, holding up a hand to quell his protestations.

“Really, it’s not what I wish to discuss tonight, _mon amour_.” She waves at the small table set for two. “Draco, would you mind terribly if we dined here this evening? I took the liberty of asking for a private supper to be brought up; Ruibby delivered it herself.”

“It’s the best idea I’ve heard all day – thank you, Hermione.” Draco kisses her hand as he leads her over to the table and pulls out a sturdy wooden chair. “How is Ruibby? Has her sword-crazy dipshit paramour been sacked yet?”.

“Ruibby’s still hopping mad – understandably – but she’s feeling better after talking to Luna. Mac has been released from the infirmary; you’ll be relieved to know he’s under strict instructions to remain in their suite, and Minerva has asked us to sit in on her meeting with him, early tomorrow morning.” Hermione unfolds her napkin into her lap and uncovers the stew and bread basket; Draco begins to ladle the delicious hot dish into their bowls.

“It would serve Macdolas right if he were let go: I know for a fact that Headmistress McGonagall warned him off wielding any weaponry, remember? He wasn’t even here a full day before he nearly sliced off his toe trying to snitch a sword, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco grouches. “What really pissed me off was seeing how much he loved all the attention that idiotic little caper brought about, Granger.”

“I agree that he shouldn’t have meddled with that suit of armour, Malfoy; but in his defence, I think he just wanted a closer look at it,” Hermione argues.

She gentles her tone as she continues, “I suspect Mac also has some unaddressed… issues… about keeping everyone safe, after what Flint and McLaggen both tried to do. He already had a fierce need to protect his loved ones, and it follows that he probably still feels the same way, though we’re now safe at Hogwarts. We– we both know that danger can strike anywhere… even here.” She keeps her eyes fixed on her cutlery, her hand trembling as uneasy memories of battle, terror, bloodshed and loss fill her mind.

Draco is by her side in a heartbeat, crouching to soothingly rub her tensed shoulder, his other thumb resting against her jaw. “I’m sorry, Hermione. You’re absolutely right, and I shouldn’t be so hard on Macdolas. I just wish he had a brain bigger than a walnut, when it comes to shiny sharp blades – I’m kidding,” he groans, as Hermione huffs. “I was terrified at the thought of losing him, OK?”.

“I know – I was petrified, too,” Hermione rakes her hand through his shiny alabaster locks. “Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson, and I’m certain Minerva won’t sack the rascal. I’m alright, Draco; please eat some dinner, you’ve had a long day. Go on,” she imperiously motions to his vacated chair.

He fluidly swivels and returns to his seat, his unusual grey eyes soft as they gaze back at her. _I wish I had a tenth of his easy grace… not that I’d ever trade it for the heady delight of watching the man move so elegantly,_ Hermione decides. She determinedly refocuses the conversation.

“How did your first art classes go? Is Professor Benson happy to share the load? Tell me everything, please.” She spoons up more tasty stew, settling in to attentively listen.

After only a tiny hesitation, Draco launches into an energetic retelling of his experience with the Seventh Years, including the (extremely slow-moving) budding romance between Head Boy McGrath and Miss Campbell. He smiles benevolently at her as she gaily claps her hands and asks an exhaustive series of questions about the shy pair. He tries to downplay how helpful he was to them both with explaining Madame Auclair’s technique, but Hermione is having none of his diffidence.

“It sounds to me like you’ve already made a genuine contribution to your students, both in their knowledge and welfare, Professor Malfoy,” she grins, even as he negates her observation with a vehement shake of his fair head.

“Rubbish, it was but a small tip that Cecily would probably have passed onto them, had I not been present,” he demurs. “I apologized to Joseph, by the way; and when I expressed my gratitude for his help with the skull prank earlier, he said he’d read about me – about all of us, I suppose – in the history texts, and that he believed the War wasn’t all black and white. I was rather humbled when he said that… when I wasn’t feeling like a wizened tribal elder,” Draco gripes. “’History books’, indeed!”.

“You’re not yet twenty-three, you poor baby,” Hermione razzes. “I told you Joseph was a lovely lad, didn’t I? And, Draco – you deserve to feel proud of your efforts, my love. I’m really sorry about what happened earlier– and I never wanted to overshadow _your_ achievements here, you know. Today is as much about you realizing your dreams, as it is about me achieving mine. I’m incredibly proud of you; even more so, seeing the ludicrous pushback that you’ve had to cope with. We’ll get through this, together,” she passionately declares.

“Thank you, Hermione.” Draco fusses at the bread basket until it is exactly centred between them. “Your support is a treasure I shall never tire of, nor will I cease feeling blessed and grateful for it.” His Adam’s apple jitters.

“You’ll always have my backing: unless we’re discussing the House Cup,” Hermione attempts to lighten the intense emotional atmosphere. “Speaking of support – a couple of owls came for you while I was setting up, I put their letters on our bed. Shall we go check them out? I’ve another little surprise in store,” she urges, dabbing at her mouth before setting down her napkin.

“By all means, darling.” Draco grasps her hand to help her from her seat and lead her to their bedroom. “I was thinking: why is it we have such a squidgy little bathroom, yet Macdolas and Ruibby are enjoying a ‘sunken bath’, apparently? That does not seem equitable in the slightest,” he carps.

“Possibly because they’re half our size, and thus require only half the tub space?” Hermione logically rebuts, chortling at his disgruntled expression. “Close your eyes,” she repeats his earlier instructions before leading him through the portal to their bedroom.

Standing behind her handsome young lover, Hermione curves her arms around his waist as she softly bids, “You may open them now, Draco.”

The twinkling metallic light bulbs above their bed now read, “Congratulations on Your First Day, Professors Malfoy & Granger”. Their shimmer dapples the small pyramid of green apples Hermione has stacked on Draco’s chest of drawers.

“An apple for teacher for each day this week; I shall be quite cross if you accept fruit tokens from any other student, Professor,” Hermione stands on tip-toe to kiss his well-shaped ear. “Welcome back to Hogwarts, _mon coeur_.”

“Hermione… you’re simply too good to be true,” Draco chokes a little, reverting to French as his emotions spill over. “ _Je t’aime tellement, ma belle lionne. Si ce n’est qu’un rêve, je ne veux jamais me réveiller._ ”

“Oh, I’m flesh and blood, I assure you. Wait until I start snoring again tonight, if you need further convincing,” she pinches his lean ribcage through his black robes.

“ _Ma petite_ , your whuffling little snores are adorable– ow! I mean, of course you don’t snore,” he hastily amends, as another well-aimed pinch finds its mark. “The… uh, the cute vocalizations you emit in your sleep are wholly endearing, and barely audible.”

“Much better,” Hermione nods. “Don’t forget your letters, Malfoy.”

Picking up the two letters, he flips them over to peruse the identity of the senders. “This one’s from Mother – and this, from Lucius. That’s odd, he always used to inscribe a line or two onto the end of one of her missives, not write to me himself,” Draco ponders aloud. “I hope there’s nothing wrong– ” he rips open the seal of Lucius’s letter with one swift flick of his index finger.

Skimming his eyes down the parchment, Draco’s face grows blank. Hermione silently frets as he opens Narcissa’s epistle, reading it just as speedily. She intervenes when he sits down heavily upon the quilted counterpane.

“Draco? Is something the matter?”.

Her anxiety eases as Draco slowly turns his stunned eyes to her, his hand trembling around the closely-inscribed letters.

“They’re congratulatory letters, Hermione: one from both my parents,” he rasps. “Mother has always written to praise my efforts… but never Father. He said– he said he’s proud of me, Hermione– he didn’t qualify it, like he used to… he said he’s sorry for failing me as a parent, and for endangering us all, with – with Voldemort. He even wrote that he’s in awe of the courage it took for me to tackle my alcoholism, and he’s proud of my painting career, and in being brave enough to come back to Hogwarts to teach–” his voice withers to a croak.

“Oh, Draco!” Hermione tucks herself tightly into his side, kissing away the sluggish tears that are trickling unchecked from his disbelieving, smoke-grey eyes.

“Hermione, do you– you don’t think he’s found out he’s dying, do you?” Draco stutters, unconsciously crumpling the parchment in his fist.

“No, he’s definitely not dying, Draco,” Hermione carefully loosens his grip, unwrinkling the letters before laying them behind the pile of apples on his chest of drawers. “I think Lucy has finally found the guts to tell you he loves you, Draco – and he does, you know.” She tightens her arms around his strapping chest, blinking away her sympathetic tears as the shock in his eyes begins to fade.

They simply hold one another for uncounted minutes, the magicked gold and silver fairy lights merrily sparkling overhead. Beyond the open curtains, the distant lights of Hogsmeade faintly glow in the gathering twilight.

 _I do understand Draco’s musings, about whether this is merely a dream we’re both sharing, somehow… and I don’t ever wish to wake from it, if that’s the case. I’ve never felt this intensity of contentment, pure joy, and rightness, before; all of it centred around this man… my magnificent, complex, wonderful wizard._ Hermione eagerly responds to his slow, sweet kisses, as their soul-bond facilitates their silent communication.

 ** _I love you with all my heart, Hermione. I’ll never be able to express how much you mean to me,_** he solemnly projects.

 ** _Draco, I love you with everything I am; and I’ll keep telling you that, until you tire of hearing it,_** she replies.

**_Never. I intend to listen to you for the rest of my life, snores and all._ **

**_Ditto – but_ you’re _the snorer, not me._**

**_Granger, must you always have the last word?_ **

**_Malfoy… do you even need to ask??_ **

Swapping kisses and tickles, they collapse back onto the bed… taking and finding comfort in one another, in equal measure.

* * *

**Italian translations:**

_dolcezza_ – sweetheart

 _mia amata –_ my beloved

 _tettarella –_ nipple

 _Cazzo –_ Shit

 _mia cara ragazza –_ my darling girlfriend.

**French translations:**

_Je t’aime tellement, ma belle lionne. Si ce n’est qu’un rêve, je ne veux jamais me réveiller_ \- I love you so much, my beautiful lioness. If this is only a dream, I never want to wake up.


	86. Conference

__

_Monday 30 March 2003: AM_

“Pansy? Pansy? _Pansy!_ ” Mayumi’s genteel tones finally penetrate the dozy little domestic daydream Pansy has been indulging in as she’s been (ostensibly) processing end-of-the-month paperwork.

“Oh! Yes, Mayumi?” Pansy hastens to cover her absentminded sketch with a Gringotts report before her manager can catch sight of the intertwined hearts creeping around the page in a doodled border. _It’s normal to get a little side-tracked with the banking details – they’re boring as batshit, after all._ “Is there a problem in the boutique?” she questions.

“No: you have a visitor,” there is the merest hint of a smirk on Mayumi’s face as she gracefully steps aside from the open doorway. “Auror Potter was in the neighbourhood… apparently.”

“Harry!” Pansy abandons any last pretence of nonchalance as she rockets from her chair, cannoning into Harry’s open arms. He utters a soft “ _oof”_ as she cinches him into an ardent hug, deep emotion clogging her throat.

Mayumi peers around Harry’s back, her smirk now a full-blown grin. “I’ll see to it you’re not interrupted; provided you supply me with all the juicy details at lunch, Pansy.”

“Off you go, Mayumi,” Pansy shoots out a hand, having no compunction about firmly shutting the door in her snoopy colleague’s face. She turns back to her smiling boyfriend, suddenly feeling a tad shy after her exuberant greeting. “Hi, Harry.”

“Hallo, Pansy, love,” his head lowers in a passionate kiss, effectively quelling her doubts of over-effusiveness as his mouth hungrily explores her own. Pansy holds on for dear life as Harry backs her up against the closed door, his fingers lightly curving around her jaw and burrowing into her hair.

 _Oh… my… goddess… he’s kissing me like he’s been away at sea for six months!_ Pansy eagerly reciprocates, cupping his taut derriere through his crimson Auror robes and licking at his warm, hot mouth. Memories of their utterly superb night together float past her mind’s eye in a stream of remembered pleasure and hitherto unknown intimacy. _Was it really only last night? Well, this morning, technically…_ her cheeks flush as she thinks about waking up in Harry’s arms, coaxing him awake with tiny nibbling kisses to every part of his gloriously nude body…

Harry is panting hard when he pulls away from their embrace, his emerald eyes fever-bright behind his spectacles. “Merlin, Pansy – I want nothing more than to Apparate us home and have my wicked way with you,” he groans.

“I have no objection, seeing as how you’ve completely ruined my concentration for the day,” Pansy pertly replies, her sauciness dropping away as she notes his serious expression. “Harry, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve bad news to impart.” A ball of dread clenches in her stomach as she considers that he appears to have come straight from work. _The damned roofie case…_

“It’s nothing bad, love,” Harry reassures, clearly understanding the source of her stricken expression. He gathers her back in his arms in a loose hold, intently peering down into her face. “I have to go away this afternoon, for the job – we’ve been given the go-ahead to make international arrests, starting with the Netherlands, Belgium, and France.”

“There’s– there’s that many – people to arrest?” Pansy stammers. “I hadn’t realized the… scope, I guess.” She casts down her eyes, heart heavy. Harry’s gentle fingertip on her chin rouses her from her melancholy.

“Love, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. All I’ll say is that we’re confident that we’ve now discovered the full extent of the criminals involved, and we’re set to see they all face appropriate justice. I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this, I only found out about the work trip this morning, and I–I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye… I-I had to see you,” he confesses, smiling shyly. The bashful gesture makes her heart thump a little harder.

“I’m really glad you did,” Pansy mumbles, a pang of vulnerability rising even as her hands compulsively roam his lithe body. “Will you be gone long, Harry?” she tries not to sound too wistful.

“At least until Thursday night – possibly most of Friday, depending on how effectively we can liaise with the French authorities,” Harry replies, his fingers smoothing back her hair. “I’ll be doing my level best to ensure it all proceeds as quickly as possible, believe me.”

“Do you think you’ll make it back in time for Mac’s party on Saturday? I mean, I know it’s obviously not your number one priority, but I thought it would be nice if we could attend together…” _Salazar’s smelly socks – I sound like a whiny baby!_ Pansy berates herself.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, love; I promise, I’ll be back to escort you to Malfoy Manor, come hell or high water,” Harry seals his vow with a tender kiss, chuckling against the side of her mouth as he observes, “There’s something I never thought I’d ever say: I’m going to a house elf’s party at Malfoy Manor… well, I’m game if you are, Pansy.”

“I can’t wait, Harry,” Pansy sincerely states, her thumping heart now flopping in her chest as Harry’s smile happily widens. “I’ll protect you from Lucius, never fear – though I very much doubt he’d dare do or say anything rude to you, Narcissa would have his hide quicker than you can say ‘dragon leather’,” she laughs.

Harry shrugs carelessly. “He’s not stupid, whatever else he may be… besides, there’s no way I’d miss the opportunity to see Lucius’s reaction to his ancestral home being the host venue for Macdolas’s ‘Wild Birthday Bacchanal,” he quotes the party invitations they’d recently received. “I bet he has a face like a half-sucked lemon for much of the duration!”.

Pansy cackles at the thought. “Wait until Hagrid plonks himself down in the ex-Lord of the Manor’s favourite armchair, or that giant cat of Hermione’s sheds all over his precious Aubusson… oh, it’s going to be so much fun, Harry.”

“Yeah… because you’ll be there, Pansy.” Harry coughs a little, his sooty hair flopping over his forehead as he quietly says, “Um… I also wanted to say that– that I’d like– I’d love for you to make yourself at home, at Grimmauld Place, I mean. While I’m away– when I’m not away, too, of course– any time you like, not that I expect you to move in or anything– it’s too soon for that, yeah… but Kreacher gets lonely, you know, and I thought that you maybe wouldn’t mind spending some time with him, in the evenings, he’s a really good cook–”

“Harry. Shush,” she lays a silencing finger upon his parted lips, wondering anew at just how endearingly cute his nervous little speeches always are. _He couldn’t be more charming if he actually tried; the best part is, he has no idea how sexy his sweetness is. Such a darling… **my** darling…_

“If you’re certain Kreacher won’t mind the intrusion, I would like to drop by occasionally,” Pansy strives to keep her tone light and unconcerned, though butterflies are buffeting to and fro in her stomach. “I’ve developed a bit of a fondness for your record collection, you see – especially Stewart Rod, and The Windows.”

“I think you mean Rod Stewart, and The Doors, love,” Harry mildly corrects, though she can see the amused smile in his eyes. “I wish I could be there to listen to them with you… I’m going to miss you something dreadful, Pansy. Last night – last night was so special – you’re so special, and I just want you to know that I’ll be thinking of you constantly while I’m away.”

 _He’s determined to make me test the waterproof assurance on my new mascara._ Pansy blinks away her stupid tears.

“Hey – you’d better not, I need you to concentrate wholly on the job, Auror Potter! The sooner you throw these bastards in the clink, the sooner you’ll come home, right?” she injects some spine into her wobbly voice. “Please be safe, Harry. I’ll miss you, too.”

“’Throw them in the clink’? Have you been watching old Muggle TV cop shows, love?” Harry grins, before he folds her back into his warm arms. “I’ll be safe as houses, don’t worry about me.”

Pansy lays her head against his chest, unable to speak for a few moments. _How is it that being around Harry always makes me feel grounded, and whole? I feel so freaking happy… but I need to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dr Rica was right when she said the universe isn’t actually out to get me. Urgh, being an adult is **hard**._

“I’d best get back to the Ministry, sweetheart,” Harry regretfully states, kissing her eyebrows once, twice, then stepping back a pace. “I’ve been remiss in not telling you how beautiful you look, today – well, every day. You take my breath away, Miss Parkinson.”

“Why thank you, kind sir,” Pansy performs a quick spin to make the belled silk skirt flare on her black and azure floral dress. “We might have one in your size downstairs, if you come back for a fitting?” she teases.

“Maybe another time,” Harry plays along. “The shop looks wonderful; you’ve done a brilliant job with your business, love.”

“Thanks, Harry. Although I prefer ‘boutique’ or ‘salon’,” she winks. “It’s mandatory to charge an extra twenty percent with the fancy name, you see.”

“Mmm, I usually find that’s the case when I purchase my bespoke suits, tuxedos, and dress robes,” Harry somehow keeps a straight face as he strikes a ‘model’ pose. “I should hit up Malfoy the next time I frequent Savile Row, teach the posh git a thing or two about _real_ fashion.”

If her responding laughter is a little high-pitched, Harry doesn’t remark upon it. _I wish he weren’t going away… but I’ll be OK. It’s only a few nights, after all._ She puffs out a strong breath in an effort to rid herself of her lingering melancholy.

“You can use my Floo to return to work, if you like,” Pansy offers, after goodness knows how long spent simply mooning at each other while holding hands, Harry’s thumbs running gently over her knuckles. Clearing her throat, she adds, “I’d rather not give Mayumi any more ammunition about your presence – her beady eyes are already on stalks.”

“Thanks… yeah, I guess… I guess I should leave now.” Harry makes no move toward the magical fireplace, chuffing a dry laugh as he admits, “I’m having trouble letting go of you, love.”

“Come on,” Pansy leads him over, just as unwilling as he is to disengage from their affectionate handhold. “Have a productive and safe trip, Duckie.”

“I’ll owl you when I can – and Kreacher is expecting you, so please come over whenever you feel like a nice meal, or to listen to some records – you can set them up magically too, remember how I showed you the other night? Not that I don’t trust you to manually operate the record arm and needle – you’ve very agile, pretty little hands–”

“Harry, I really should have nicknamed you ‘Waffler’; it’s fine, darling. Go back to work – but one more kiss, please?” Pansy taps her lips, barely having time to remove her fingers before Harry’s mouth enthusiastically descends.

Expecting a light smooch, Pansy literally has to clutch the wizard for support as his firm, strong lips claim every inch of her gasping mouth, her constant desire for him flaming incredibly quickly with each assured stroke of his masterful tongue.

Just when she is at the point of seriously contemplating dragging him over onto the two-seater dark grey divan for a ‘proper’ farewell, Harry breaks away. It is little consolation that he looks as wantonly frazzled as she feels.

“Bye, love– take care of yourself– I– lo– I’ll miss you,” he blindly snatches a pinch of Floo powder, raggedly speaking his destination and whirling away before her dazed eyes.

 _Wait – what was that – stutter…?_ Pansy shakes her head, unwilling to assume Harry was going to say something rather significant with his choked-out goodbye. She stumbles over to the divan, plunking herself down without a shred of her usual grace.

_How the devil am I supposed to return to the excruciating mundanity of balancing Galleons and Sickles after **that**??_

* * *

_Monday 30 March 2003: PM_

“Mrs Green! _MRS GREEN!_ Look, there’s a _pool_ in this room – and a spa, **_RIGHT INSIDE THE HOUSE_** _!_ ” Tavi’s shrieks of pure glee echo throughout the cavernous ground floor of the mansion, her little feet rapidly pattering across the black and white chequered marble floor as she bounces from doorway to doorway.

“Heavens, us’ll all be deef, what wiv yon kidda’s hullabaloo,” Nella dryly remarks. “All this gan-on ower ye wee bummler box – Aa’ve seen swankier hooses, mind.” Mrs Green’s droll expression falls away as she claps her hands to her knees, dissolving into guffaws at Blaise’s crestfallen face. “Divvent be bubblin’, young Blaise, ye mansion’s properly hoity-toity and sonsy, lad.”

“Thanks, Nella.” Heartened (by what he assumes is praise for his residence), Blaise pecks an impulsive kiss to the septuagenarian’s weathered cheek, smiling as she pretends to bat him away. “I appreciate you accepting my offer to stay here while Gussie’s away; it’s nothing short of a disgrace that the soonest the council can send someone to fix your broken plumbing is Friday.”

“Aye, curious, that,” Nella sniffs. “Nowt odd that the pipes went wrang when ye arrived, tis there? I wonder what our Gus’ll think on the fine coincidence, hmmm?”.

“It was fortuitous indeed that I was on hand to offer my favourite ladies alternative accommodation,” Blaise needlessly adjusts his grip on the two small suitcases Mrs Green entrusted to his care before he side-Apparated them all into the foyer of Villa Zabini, feeling Nella’s judgmental regard crawling over his involuntarily deepening complexion like ants on a picnic blanket. _Deflect, deflect!_

“Welcome to my humble abode - _la mia casa è la tua casa,_ as they say.”

 _Hopefully, she won’t notice my guilty blush… it’s not like those pipes weren’t overdue to be replaced, anyway. This is going to be a pleasant, relaxing mini holiday for Nella and Tavi – and Gelsy’s going to revel in the extra company, she hates twiddling her thumbs while I’m at work. I think anyone would have to agree that my teensy spot of light tampering has benefited us all._ Blaise grins as he mentally pats himself on the back for his patent altruism. _The Great Zabini, spreading joy and cheer wherever he goes…_

His self-congratulatory musings are interrupted by Gelsy Apparating into the grand vestibule with a soft pop. Her shrewd little face lights up at the sight of Mrs Green.

“Ah, Gels, there you are: could you please make us–”

“ _Mia cara amica Nella! Benvenuto…_ welcome, welcome! Come to the parlour, Gelsomina prepares a _delizioso_ afternoon tea,” she takes Nella’s thin hand before bustling them in the direction of the smaller sitting room.

“ – some tea,” Blaise speaks the last to himself with a sigh. He hefts the suitcases a little higher as he heads for the wide central staircase.

“Mister Blaise, do you want some help?” Tavi skitters out of the pool room, Tricky tucked beneath one arm and her school bag banging against her back. “I can carry my own case, you know – I’ve got plenty of muscles.” Blaise bites his cheek to stifle his smile as the diminutive schoolgirl bends her elbow to flex her skinny bicep. “See? Gus has already taught me how to punch and kick, and I’ve watched all the ‘Karate Kid’ movies.”

“Impressive, Miss Octavia,” he murmurs. “ _All_ of them, hey? Why, it’s a wonder you don’t come with a warning label, strutting around with all that infinite power under your belt.”

Tavi narrows her eyes. “I know you’re laughing at me – just because I’m little, it doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous,” she plants her hands on her tiny hips with an adorable scowl. “The smallest scorpions deliver the deadliest sting, Mister Blaise.”

Setting down the cases, Blaise hunkers in front of the girl, lightly tweaking one of her pigtails. “I’ve no doubt you’re a natural-born killer, just like your big sister. I’m sorry for teasing you, Kiddo – and I’m very glad you already know how to defend yourself. Maybe you could teach me a few things, while you’re here?”.

“Mmm… I guess… I’d have to consult my schedule,” Tavi mimes pulling a pencil from behind her ear and ruffling through an imaginary diary. “Also, I’d like to be paid in cakes and milkshakes, please?” she shamelessly wheedles. “Tricky gets hungry _a lot_ , and she’s not cheap to feed.”

“I bet – look at the cute poochy belly on her,” Blaise nods. “How about you take Tricky and yourself along to the parlour to join the others for afternoon tea –” he points the way, “ – while I carry your things to your rooms, Kiddo? Oh, before you go, Miss Octavia: will you please promise me you won’t ever go in the pool on your own? Make sure Mrs Green or Gelsy is watching you the whole time, alright?”.

“OK – but I already know how to swim, Gus takes me to the community pool in summer,” Tavi shrugs. “Nella’s a really good swimmer, she won a lot of races when she was younger, so she taught me all the strokes except butterfly. I don’t know why they call it ‘butterfly’, though, I think if butterflies could swim, they wouldn’t splash about so much and churn up all that water – do _you_ know why it’s called ‘butterfly’, Mister Blaise?”.

“Eh – no – what? You can look it up in our library, I’m sure we have a book about… Muggle swimming terms.” Blaise crosses his fingers behind his back. _I might have to make a quick trip to Waterstone’s before the day is out… that’s not a bad idea, I can ask the staff to recommend some appropriate children’s books… or I’ll ask Nella, she’s bound to know what Tavi likes. Maybe I’ll take them both after school tomorrow? And we should also visit a toy store… I’ve always said the Villa doesn’t have enough toys. Knocking ‘em out of the park today, Blaisey!_

A gentle tug on his left ear brings him back to the conversation. “I promise I won’t go swimming on my own, Mister Blaise,” Tavi solemnly says. “Tricky _really_ wants to try the spa bubbles, though.”

“Well, it’s lucky for Tricky that the pool – and the spa – is heated year-round. Maybe you could have a dip after dinner? Here, may I take your backpack upstairs, too? I think you’ll like your room; it has an adjoining door to Mrs Green’s, and Gelsy reckons a real Italian princess once stayed there,” Blaise stands, carefully slipping the bag off Tavi’s upheld arms. He forestalls the eager child’s next line of questioning. “Go have something to eat and ask Gelsy all about it, she’s the expert on the history of the house.”

“Wow – OK, Mister Blaise!”. Tavi takes a few jolting steps, before rotating; she races back to fling her arms around Blaise in a tight hug. “Thank you very much for asking us here and taking care of us. I’m so happy you’re Gussie’s boyfriend now – and my friend.”

She lifts her candy-floss blonde head to peer up earnestly at him, continuing, “And not just because you’re rich – I mean, I’m glad you’re not poor – Mrs Green said you’re rich as Croesus, I don’t know who that is, but I bet he doesn’t have to eat three minute noodles the night before pay day – anyway, I don’t have many friends: but even if I did, you’d make my top three, _for sure_.”

Bequeathing him a toothy grin, she tears off again before he can return the hug, or try to force a reply from his choked-up throat. He stands stock-still, his heart seeming to both crumple and expand at the dear little girl’s sweet sincerity and affectionate gesture.

 _‘Top three’… I don’t think I’ve ever been happier with scraping into third place._ Blaise pinches at the inner corners of his eyes, wiping away the sudden wetness.

_I don’t care if Gus hits the roof when she learns I’ve imported Nella and Tavi to the Villa while she’s on her work trip; she **did** ask me to keep an eye on them, and there’s no better way to facilitate that than by having them stay with me, right? Who knows, maybe my Gussie won’t mind at all? It’s not like I’m **spoiling** them… I’m simply being caring, and sharing. Yeah. Perfectly reasonable. _

He picks up the suitcases, beginning to ascend the gleaming marble steps. _Maybe, though… maybe I should just shoot off one of those text message thingies tonight, not call… Gussie’s bound to be tired, international travel is wearisome at the best of times. We wouldn’t want her to worry._

 _Cool. Sorted._ Cheerily whistling, Blaise proceeds to _La Stanza della Principessa_ , his mind filling with ideas as to how to best employ the limitless scope of his hospitality for the next three days.

* * *

_Tuesday 31 March 2003: AM_

“Granger, I can’t shake the feeling we’ve been summoned to the Head’s office to discuss our naughty child’s mischievous behaviour,” Draco grouches, standing behind her at the vanity as they groom their respective heads of hair.

He watches with no small fascination as Hermione adroitly applies a series of potions and lotions to her tumbling chestnut curls: ‘fluffing’, ‘scrunching’, ‘praying hands’, ‘finger coiling’, and Merlin knows what else. He smugly lays down his hairbrush as she glares at him in the shared mirror. “All done.”

“Mac’s not a child, Malfoy – and you can wipe that critical look off your face, all this is necessary if I don’t want to sport bird’s nest hair,” she huffs.

“Hermione, your hair is utterly glorious, and I respect and admire the effort you employ to keep it so lustrous and… contained.” Draco prudently moves out of jabbing reach of her special comb as her freckled little nose wrinkles in suspicion at his glib words.

“Just for that, I’ll let you take the lead in our parent-teacher conference this morning,” she sniggers as he blanches. “Make sure you have a good reason prepared, as to why Mac ignored McGonagall’s no-weapons policy, Draco.”

“Hold on – you just said he’s not a child – and I truly feel you are better suited to pleading the rascal’s case, you understand the elven mindset so comprehensively, Granger. And– and you’re a G.R.E.A.S.E.R., _you_ should have the honour of explaining that he deserves a second chance.”

“Nice try, albeit terribly flimsy and transparent,” Hermione shakes her head pityingly, before cocking her head at her reflection and nodding in satisfaction. “Hurry up, we don’t want to be late.” She winks at his affronted expression. “Minerva detests tardiness.”

Knowing just enough about women to keep his mouth firmly sealed, Draco allows himself to be towed in her wake. _Technically, Macdolas isn’t even our employee, any more… I don’t see why we’ve been dragged into the daft little toe-cutter’s probation meeting. Although – I suppose I’ll have to speak up on his behalf, if the Headmistress really is of a mind to let him go; I doubt she’ll go to that extreme, she’s strict but fair, in everything except close Quidditch games… maybe best not to mention that, though…_

“Malfoy, you left behind your satchel, sweetheart,” Hermione points to the item as she opens the door of their suite. “Ready to plead Mac’s case?”.

Grabbing his portfolio, Draco drolly enacts a courtly roll of his wrist. “After you, _ma petite_.”

_Macdolas, you are going to owe me – **big time** – for this, you rascally shrimpet. Always with the ruddy sharp blades…_

* * *

“Mister Macdolas, while I do understand that you had no intention of wounding yourself with the sword, I distinctly remember advising you that carrying weaponry at Hogwarts is not only unnecessary, but stringently prohibited. It is an edict which applies to staff and students alike, with very good reason – as you may now personally attest.” Minerva McGonagall’s cool, lilting tones fill the cosily-lit Head’s office. “I believe we would all like to know why you saw fit to ignore my earlier stricture, thusly causing unfortunate injury to yourself, please.”

Squirming like a worm on a hook, Macdolas opens his sulky mouth to reply. “Highly Heralded, Hardworking, Highbrowed and Handsome Headmistress Professor McGonagall–”

“’Headmistress’ or ‘Professor’ will suffice, Mister Macdolas; the continued use of unnecessary honorifics will slow us down interminably, and I am already cognizant of your impressive vocabulary.” Draco has to stop himself from clapping in admiration at Minerva’s no-nonsense squashing of Macdolas’s verbosity.

She peers over the top of her glasses, her familiar quelling expression instantly making Draco cringe a little at an anticipated dressing-down (regardless of the fact it’s not aimed in his direction).

Ruibby’s prim lips thin even further, until they all but disappear. Even Hermione looks subdued, her hands clasped neatly in her lap as she sits beside him. She discreetly prods Draco’s ribcage, presumably to spur him into action.

“Headmistress, if I may– ” Draco’s attempt to intercede on the gosling’s behalf is curtly abbreviated.

“You may not. Do carry on, Master Macdolas.”

The disgruntled elf sullenly mutters “ _Hortatory_ and _Highflying,_ ” beneath his breath, fussing at his standard uniform robes before he properly answers. “Macdolas merely wishes to better inspect the shining sword of the armoured suit, Headmistress – he reaches for the piece afore he realizes its nasty, stabby qualities.”

His usually sunny voice falters as he suddenly flings himself to the floor, his nubby hands grasped in abject supplication as he cries, “Please, Headmistress, Macdolas begs you to take pity on a poor, inquisitive, misguided-but-well-intentioned elf! He means no harm, and begs pardon for his unintentional sword-based crimes! Do not cast him aside – he will perform any task to prove his fealty to the Humanitarian Headmistress McGonagall and the Captivating Castle Hogwarts! Have mercy, your Heavenly Highness…” he snuffles into the carpet.

Ruibby immediately slides from her own chair, kneeling to rub his shivering back and croon soft phrases of assurance.

Before Draco can decide upon a course of action, Minerva briskly moves to the prostate sprite; she helps him to stand with a firm, gentle hand. “Enough of your ‘Heavenly Highness’ nonsense; dry your tears, there’s no need for dramatics, Mister Macdolas. Your employment shan’t be adversely affected by this luckless incident, though you may consider this your formal warning against further testing of the rules on weaponry, do you understand?”.

“Yes, Headmistress Professor McGonagall; Macdolas has certainly learned his lesson,” he jerkily nods, tears vanishing as quickly as they appeared. “Macdolas asks leave to make one small suggestion, if it pleases Your Hegemonic Headmistress…ness?”

Faintly sighing and raising her left eyebrow, Minerva nods her assent.

 _Here we go._ Draco presses his fingers to his temples, emitting a tiny groan as he imagines what the madcap elf is likely to come out with next.

Macdolas opens his wide mouth, but Ruibby beats him to it.

“MacRu respectfully request that the elfish staff of Hogwarts be eligible for the Sorting Hat, Headmistress? Ruibby and Macdolas believe their people’s long-denied integration into respectability and acceptance may be more easily achieved if the students come to know and appreciate the elves as their House members and equals,” she assuredly proclaims.

“And MacRu also petition that the human and elf Houses be granted one large communal common room, to better facilitate unity and togetherness, and work towards eradicating the oft unconscious yet tangible prejudice against and for certain Houses,” Macdolas chirps, swinging Ruibby’s hand as he warms to their topic. “Despite Her Most Honourable Principal’s known bias, Gryffindor really shouldn’t win all the time, Headmistress Professor McGonagall!”.

 _Eh – and he was doing so well._ A beat of fraught silence; Draco stares in confusion as Minerva raucously laughs in response, slapping her thin hands upon the polished wood of her organized desk top and throwing back her head. Hermione and Draco exchange astonished glances.

 ** _Wow… I really thought Mac was going to be tossed out on his ear,_** Hermione’s wondering voice sounds in his head. **_Minerva must have taken a shine to him, hmmm?_**

 ** _He possesses the luck of the very devil himself,_ ma petite _. He’s both the genie_ and _the lamp._** Draco relaxes his tensed shoulders.

Rising from her seat, Minerva looks keenly at ‘MacRu’. “You’re pure gallus, Master Macdolas – quite the cheeky monkey. I’ll let it pass this time, since you’ve considerably brightened my morning,” she bestows a thin-lipped yet kindly smile.

“Now, as to your suggestions: I’ll have to take them to the Board, but I think they’re both excellent ideas, depending on your final proposals and recommendations, of course. I shall expect you – er, MacRu – to present a meticulously researched submission on both topics: by Friday evening, shall we say? A written proposal, naturally,” she stresses.

Macdolas’s ears noticeably droop at the request; Ruibby beams and rubs together her hands in delight. “Certainly, Headmistress McGonagall! MacRu shall devote every moment of their leisure time to the project.”

“Excellent. You may be excused. Mister Macdolas: I urge you to heed my advice, and stay well clear of any dubious objects, despite their shininess and apparent glamour. Should you have any questions or concerns, please come see me, rather than take matters – or swords – into your own hands,” Minerva sternly cautions. “You were fortunate indeed to not suffer serious injury, my dear.” She ushers the elvish couple to the door.

Bowing and curtseying their farewells, the pair exit the office. Draco chortles as he hears Macdolas plaintively bleat, “Darlingest Ruibby – the Highly Heralded Headmistress gave MacRu _homework!_ ” as their light footsteps fade down the stone corridor.

Draco scrambles to his feet as Minerva returns to her chair. “Thank you for expertly dealing with Macdolas’s idiocy, Headmistress; I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of your valuable time–”

“We’re not done yet, Draco. You may remove that pained expression from your face, this won’t take but a moment.” Minerva trains her eagle eye on him as he slowly reseats himself. “How are you both settling in? Anything I should be aware of?”.

Pinned by her judicial gaze, he barely manages to resist the urge to fidget. “Ah, everything is going well, thank you; though perhaps our bathroom is a little… poky–”

“One of the Seventh Year Potions students left a nasty tricked-up toy skull and snake on Draco’s desk yesterday,” Hermione vociferously divulges, completely ignoring Draco’s lightly exasperated groan. “Head Boy Joseph blasted it out of existence, but I’m not pleased that Draco’s being subjected to rank prejudice and hatred.”

“Hermione, it’s just a stupid prank, I’m not bothered about it, really,” Draco clasps her hand, stroking small circles into her palm. “It’s best to ignore it, they’ll get bored if their petty tricks garner no attention.”

“I disagree, Mister Malfoy. You are a valued employee, and I simply will not stand for this kind of behaviour within the castle, from students or staff alike. Leave it with me: but you’ll immediately report any more incidents of a similar nature, is that understood?”. Minerva’s hackles have clearly risen; Draco almost expects her to viciously hiss.

“Draco, please smile and nod,” Hermione quietly prompts. He dumbly obeys, gratitude for McGonagall’s unquestioning support clotting his vocal chords. _This is more than I deserve… much more._

“Good. Now, as to your bathroom; the new Joint Accommodations Tower is still undergoing renovations, so you’ll have to make do with the ‘poky’ facilities for the time being. ‘Suck it up, Sunshine’, as the hip and happening kids say.”

She cocks her head to scrutinize Hermione. “Now, how are you finding everything? Any other problems to report?”.

“Oh, Professor– Minerva – I’m thoroughly enjoying teaching here! I know it’s early days yet, but I already feel fulfilled, and I’ve so many ideas, about the Arithmancy curriculum, and perhaps even a restructure of the introductory mathematics courses to attract more students, particularly focusing on any gender bias issues…” Hermione blushes as she realizes her audience is regarding her with fond indulgence.

“Please continue, we’d love to hear more,” Draco moves his caressing fingers to her wrist, pride for his magnificent girlfriend’s genius wreathed across his face. He chances a quick peck to the corner of her mouth. “You’re amazing, _ma petite_.” Their mouths meet for a longer smooch as Hermione leans into him, her plump lips warm and inviting.

“Oh, to be young, and in love… ugh, just watching you two is exhausting,” Minerva drolly comments. “I’ll thank you to save the cuddling for your suite, Professors.”

“Sorry,” they sheepishly mumble in unison, breaking apart, but leaving their pinkies looped together.

“Back to business: that’s excellent news, Hermione. Once you’ve collated your research and drawn up a suitable proposal, I’d be delighted to discuss your ideas,” Minerva declares. “I don’t agree with change merely for change’s sake, but I’m of the opinion that it’s past time Hogwarts adapted itself to better suit everyone’s needs.”

“Absolutely,” Draco fervently replies. “Is that why you’re giving serious thought to Ruibby and Macdolas’s bold concepts? I’m sorry about their audacity – I did expect them to start shaking up things, but not in their first week,” he sighs.

“No need to apologize, Draco; though I will be billing Malfoy Estate for any future damage caused by Macdolas’s inquisitive, meddling fingers,” Minerva cackles. “I’m wholly confident you will do your utmost to help contain his… rashness, shall we say?”.

 _Bloody hell – considering the mayhem Macdolas consistently leaves in his wake, our coffers will bleed dry within the year._ Draco glumly nods. “Yes, I’ll do what I can – but he definitely listens to Hermione more than he heeds my sound advice.”

“Throw me under the bus, much?” Hermione grumbles in a low whisper.

“Dear me, Draco – I was jesting. Don’t get your trousers in a twist, Hogwarts is perfectly able to absorb the cost of Macdolas’s shenanigans.” Minerva begins gathering together loose parchment. “He’s quite a character, isn’t he? And Ruibby… she’s as sharp as a tack. I predict she’ll rise through the staffing ranks quicker than you can say ‘I wish to wash my Irish wristwatch’.”

Butting the papers into a neat stack, the Headmistress archly smiles at their non-plussed demeanours. “Try saying that ten times with a few generous drams of Glenfiddich beneath your belt! Let’s get down to breakfast before all the good kippers are gone, yes?”. She herds them before her ( _much like she did with ‘MacRu’_ , Draco decides, still feeling like he’s regressed to his teenage years).

“We will do what we can to… erm… minimize Macdolas’s exuberance, Minerva,” Hermione promises, as the elder witch spell-locks her office door and begins swiftly striding down the hall. “He’s an incredibly hard worker, and he doesn’t _mean_ to cause trouble…”

“…It simply always seems to find him,” Draco finishes, tucking Hermione’s arm into the crook of his elbow as they strive to keep pace. “He’s a rogue – but he’s _our_ rogue,” he avers. “I’d like to confidently state that he’ll learn from his near-miss; but it’s more accurate to say he’ll probably find an ingenious new way to wreak havoc.”

“Be that as it may, Macdolas is the responsibility of all of us, now; but yes, I did call you both in on the meeting as soft practice for dealing with your future children’s escapades. I’ve a powerful premonition that your offspring will present almost as many scholastic challenges as the Weasley brood,” McGonagall quips, as they reach a fork in the corridor. “No need to sputter your whinnying protests, I’ll see you downstairs. Good day.”

Head held high, Minerva swoops her black cloak tighter as she turns left; her sprightly gait is surprisingly fast as she disappears from sight.

Draco and Hermione are left bashfully staring at one another, cheeks and ears pink at the topic of babies.

“We should– we should get some food,” Hermione says at last, not quite meeting his eyes. “That went much better than we anticipated, didn’t it?”.

“Yes: and far better than Macdolas deserved. Come, darling, you must admit he’d try the patience of a saint… and his bare-faced gall, fronting McGonagall about the Gryffindor bias! Of course, he’s not wrong – but to just blurt it out like that!”.

Draco isn’t certain which of them starts laughing first, but it isn’t long before they are doubled over and grabbing at one another to stay upright, gasping for breath.

“Oh, Malfoy… I’m so glad we moved here… our life’s never going to be boring, is it?” Hermione says, twining her hands around his neck and smiling beatifically into his mirthful grey eyes.

“Never a dull moment; and there’s no place I’d rather be, Granger.” Slipping his hands around her shapely hips, Draco bends his head for a torrid kiss, showing her exactly how happy he is to share her world.

* * *

**Geordie translations:**

Heavens, us’ll all be deef, what wiv yon kidda’s hullabaloo – Heavens, we’ll all go deaf, what with the ruckus the child’s making.

All this gan-on ower ye wee bummler box – All this fuss over your small house [bee box].

Aa’ve seen swankier hooses, mind – I’ve seen posher houses, you know.

Divvent be bubblin’, young Blaise, ye mansion’s properly hoity-toity and sonsy, lad – Don’t go crying, young Blaise, your mansion’s certainly fancy and good-looking, lad.

Nowt odd that the pipes went wrang when ye arrived, tis there? – Nothing strange about the pipes going wrong when you arrived, is there?

**Italian translations:**

_la mia casa è la tua casa_ \- My house is your house.

 _Mia cara amica Nella! Benvenuto_ – My dear friend Nella! Welcome!

 _Delizioso_ – delicious

 _La Stanza della Principessa_ – the Princess Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @Recoveringjaddict5 for her continuing kindness, patience and support in beta reading this story.  
> I appreciate it very much 💗😊💗.
> 
> Thank you to @Bex_is_a_Slytherin for the astute observation that Hermione and Draco were called to the Headmistress's office on account of their misbehaving child - yes, indeed. And also for predicting Blaise would waste no time moving in Mrs Green and Tavi... 😁.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over those characters or the world of Harry Potter. This story is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.K. Rowling's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official storyline. I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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